


Sidetracks

by merulanoir



Series: Forget Me Not [5]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Homophobia, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Don't copy to another site, Established Relationship, F/F, F/M, Found families and building trust, M/M, Pack Dynamics, Skellige - Freeform, can be read as a stand-alone fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2019-11-15 03:17:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 128,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18065573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merulanoir/pseuds/merulanoir
Summary: Geralt of Rivia is a witcher, among other things.When his friend Cerys an Craite calls for help, he sets sail to Skellige. He is not going alone, and the trip proves that trust can be built on foreign foundations as well. And while the danger that awaits is obscure, it is not the only thing threatening what he holds dear. Something is trying to break through nightmares, and such fears have a way of taking root.Continuation of the series, but can be read as a stand-alone fic as well.





	1. Summons

**Author's Note:**

> "Graphic depictions of violence" tag is there for canon typical violence.
> 
> OK HERE WE ARE. This fic has taken over my life. It's not finished yet, but now I'm being brave and posting this anyway to put some pressure on myself. I have the whole plot worked out, and by now it's invading my dreams pretty badly. This story wants to be told.
> 
> Writing this has been so much fun! It's similar to my previous works, and at the same time it's not. It's a collection of headcanons and discussions I've had with several people.
> 
> Beta for the chapter by [Tsurai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsurai/pseuds/tsurai). <3

“ _Dear Geralt,_

_I wish I was able to say I was writing to you merely to inquire after your well-being. Alas, it is not so: I have work for a witcher, and I’d much rather hire one I can trust._

_The situation is not as grave as last time we met, fortunately: No one is threatening me or my loved ones, but there is trouble afoot. I’m afraid I cannot disclose the exact details on a letter, but I promise you will be adequately compensated, should you decide to come visit us here in Skellige._

_I received a letter from Ciri regarding your adventures in Novigrad. I have to say, retirement doesn’t look much like what I imagined? My suzerain (I know, sounds weird, doesn’t it?) also informed me you have acquired an estate in Toussaint, of all places. I take it’s too late to convince you to settle in Ard Skellig?_

_Do let me know if you decide to grace us with your presence. Any friends you might feel like bringing along are equally welcome._

_Your friend,_

_Cerys an Craite_

_P.S. One Harald an Tordarroch sends his regards.”_

 

Geralt finished reading the letter aloud. When he looked up, he was met with several pairs of amused eyes.

“My, she is doing rather well for herself,” Dandelion remarked. “With Cerys as a queen, even I might someday be convinced to travel to Skellige again.”

Geralt snorted into his ale. “I’d love to see that.”

Priscilla looked at him thoughtfully, tapping her lip with the quill she had been writing with.

“I’ve never visited Skellige, to be honest. I’d love to acquaint myself with the local song-makers.”

Dandelion made an indignant sound. “The local music, if one can call it that, consists of blowing air into the emptied stomach of an animal. Quite horrid on one’s ears.”

“Oh, but the local legends are definitely worth examining,” Regis piped up, smiling knowingly. “And those should prove useful even for an alumnae of the Oxenfurt Academy, no?”

Dandelion shook his head and tried to hide a smile. “Ah, Regis, if only. I feel the local lore of the free city will keep me quite occupied for the time being.” The bard looked at Geralt. “But you look like you’re already planning on boarding the next ship to Skellige.”

Geralt shrugged. “Why not? I was planning on visiting Cerys and Hjalmar anyway.”

“So you’re not retiring, is what you mean to say?” Dandelion quipped. “No matter the hefty reward the emperor provided you with?”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “That pouch was sent back to Corvo Bianco, as you well know. B.B. will put it to good use. He’s running the vineyard while we’re away.”

“And yer still thinking of going to Skellige?” Zoltan put in. “Even though you have a home now?”

Geralt looked down into his ale for a while, and a brush of warmth reached him. It came from Regis through their bond, and ultimately settled the question for him.

“Yeah, I think I might go,” he said. “Toussaint will wait, in any case. Cerys sounds like she needs help.”

Another brush of warmth made him reach back inside his head, and pull Regis in. The vampire didn’t resist, and Geralt allowed himself to spend a moment enjoying the closeness before returning to the real world.

Geralt leaned back, taking in the cabaret. They had been staying there for a few weeks now. After completing the contract Emhyr had given them, both Geralt and Regis had been happy to stay at the Chameleon. They knew they would move on at some point, but with Novigrad growing quieter towards the end of the year, there was no rush; the cabaret was doing well, but it was noticeably more tranquil than in the fall.

Dandelion had jovially decreed they were not going to pay for their rooms until there would be paying customers to compete for the lodgings, but Geralt knew Regis had spent time negotiating deals with the nearby butcher and merchants; the vampire had aided the cabaret cook in obtaining better ingredients during their stay.

Geralt glanced at Regis, and the vampire looked back at him. Geralt sent another rush of happiness to his mate, and Regis raised an eyebrow.

The witcher looked out of the window and saw the sun was just starting its descent.

“Actually… I might stop by the docks and the Golden Sturgeon tonight, see if anyone is sailing to Kaer Trolde.”

“But tonight is the premiere of my students,” Dandelion protested. The bard waved a hand towards the currently empty stage. “They have been hard at work! Surely you wouldn’t want to miss them performing?”

Geralt blinked, his mind going unhelpfully blank. Before he could blurt out he would much rather hunt a zeugl than listen to yet another premiere, Regis spoke up.

“I’m sure we will be back before the performance,” the vampire said. “After the merchants of the free city and the traders’ guild of Kaer Trolde struck up the latest agreement, the amount of vessels sailing has increased greatly. Surely it will be no trouble to find a captain willing to take one witcher on board.”

Amusement rippled across the bond, but Regis kept a straight face. Geralt bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing out loud. Priscilla was staring at Regis with an expression that told Geralt she wasn’t fooled for a second, but when he caught her eye, she winked at him.

Zoltan cracked his neck, standing up. “Well… I’ll be sad to see you go, but I knew it was going to happen eventually.”

Regis smiled and tilted his head. “What’s this? Are you feeling tired of quiet, honest life, master dwarf?”

Zoltan met Regis’ gaze without blinking before letting out a laugh and slapping the vampire’s arm.

“Ach, aye. Far be it from me to scorn a steady livelihood, but you must admit one grows gray with it!” The dwarf huffed into his beard, and Geralt smiled at him.

“What, missing the days of robbing havekars and burying your spoils, never certain you would return to claim them?”

“What if I do?” Zoltan chuckled. “I’m not old yet. There is still some adventure in this weary heart o’ mine.”

“That, I think, no one would ever dare to suspect,” Regis said, drawing laughter from all of them.

A few minutes later Geralt pushed the door of the cabaret open. Cold air hit his face, and cleared away the worst of the mugginess inside his head. He drew the scarf tighter around his neck and held the door open for Regis. The vampire stepped out and adjusted his cloak. A habit, Geralt knew; Regis wasn’t bothered by the cold, but he had spent so long among humans the need to appear as one of them was engraved into him.

“So, the docks?” Regis said, looking up. His black eyes glinted in the fading light.

“Sure,” Geralt said. “Anything to get out of there for the evening.”

Regis laughed. He brushed his hand against Geralt’s as they set off, and the witcher felt his good humor trickle through the bond. It was like drinking sparkling lights, or holding a happy thought in his hands; tension eased out of him, until he was feeling relaxed.

Novigrad was settling in for the evening around them as they walked. Merchants, all wrapped up in furs and scarves, were packing up their wares. Fishermen were calling out the last deals of the day, and the only thing separating winter from summer was the lack of urgency: their goods would keep until tomorrow. Winter was a good, languid time for the fishers’ guild, and their pouch grew heavier during the cold months, as long as the sea stayed unfrozen.

Geralt enjoyed the fresh, cool air. He knew it would only last until spring, but being aware of the fact made it easier to accept. Once the sun warmed up the streets again, the reek of oil, spoiling meat, and human sweat would grow pungent. One more reason to leave Novigrad now: this way he would have a pleasant memory, and he could fool himself into returning.

“I’m afraid I might have outright lied to our mutual friend,” Regis said as they rounded a corner and the harbor came into view. “The merchants’ deal is much more tentative than the city officials would like, for the time being.”

“What of it?” Geralt answered. “I managed to get to Skellige during the war. I’m sure we’ll manage.”

Regis looked at him, his smile threatening to show his fangs. “Oh, I’m sure. The challenge is half the fun.”

A hint of heat crept along the bond, and it set Geralt just on the edge of retorting. He opened his mouth, but then halted, considering. Regis watched him closely, and when Geralt closed his mouth and continued walking, the vampire smiled knowingly and followed.

A tour among the docks didn’t yield them much more than insults and rumors. The sun was slipping behind the horizon just as Geralt and Regis came up to the tavern. A group of dockhands were trying to set up a fist-fighting rink outside, and Geralt dodged the offers by nodding and throwing some appropriate taunts to the men he knew; his face was becoming well-known in the city, especially after the ceremonies that had followed the latest contract. One or two even nodded to Regis.

The Golden Sturgeon was filling up fast. The cold, clear evening drove people indoors, and the place was alight with candles, chatter, and music. Geralt took a quick look around, then leaned closer to Regis.

“Go downstairs. I’ll talk to Bea, ask around a bit. I’ll come find you.”

With anyone else, Geralt wouldn’t have dreamed of leaving them alone in the tavern that hosted not only the raucous people from the harbor, but much of the free city’s underworld business makers as well. Regis was quite another tale, however. Aside from being able to defend himself against pretty much anything, the vampire had a way with people. He was able to make anyone spill their darkest secrets in a matter of hours, simply by asking the right questions.

Regis’ black eyes flashed as he nodded.

“Alright.” He leaned closer, until his lips were brushing against Geralt’s ear. “Just remember. I have plans for this evening.”

Regis withdrew before Geralt could come up with anything sensible. The witcher spent a good ten seconds trying to drag his mind out of the gutter, because the bond had flared up at Regis’ words; for a few seconds, his mind had been filled with pure heat.

When Geralt was certain he wouldn’t make an ass of himself, he made his way to the bar. Bea greeted him with an enthusiastic whoop of joy and a grin.

“Geralt! A sight for my sore eyes,” she exclaimed, leaning over the counter to kiss his cheek. “How are you? Who was that with you?”

“Hi, Bea,” Geralt laughed. “I’m good. How are you?”

Bea cast a mocking glance around herself. “Oh, not so bad. Whatever are you doing here?”

“Looking for anyone willing to sail to Skellige,” Geralt said. “How’re things? People still bothering you?”

“After you last visited this fine establishment, things have been quite calm, as a matter of fact,” Bea started, but her eyes flickered to something over Geralt’s shoulder immediately afterwards. A yowl of pain cut through the general chatter.

Geralt turned around, and heaved a sigh. Three men were gearing up for a fight, and one had already got a knife stuck between his ribs. Geralt smelled blood, sweat, and adrenaline. Before he could do anything, Bea roared at them.

“Oi! Knives go outside!”

The men regarded her with wide eyes, and even the fellow coughing up blood looked apologetic. Bea pointed at the door. “Well! Off ye go! Scram!”

As the door swung closed again, the general murmur of conversation returned, and Geralt cast an appreciative glance at Bea.

“Oh ho. Not bad.”

Bea grinned. “I learned my lesson. After you and Ciri visited me, I figured I might as well learn to defend myself. So I bought me a good knife and befriended this elf. He taught me a thing or two, and after a few brawls with our loyal customers, things became more, let’s say, manageable.” She cocked an eyebrow at him. “You would’ve liked him, I reckon.”

“What, the elf?” Geralt laughed.

“Uh-huh,” Bea hummed. She turned to draw a pint to another customer, but kept her clear eyes on him. “A silent fellow, that one. Prickly like you wouldn’t believe, but once I broke through his walls, he seemed happy enough to chat.”

Geralt smiled. He gestured to the tap, and Bea went on to draw two more pints.

“I guess. Known quite a few Aen Seidhe during my years.”

Bea plonked the tankards down on to the counter. Her smile grew knowing. “Oh, but this one was something else. Secretive fellow, didn’t even give me his full name. Asked me to call him Flutist.”

A shiver run up Geralt’s spine. His hand reached for the tankards, but his mind was suddenly far, far away.

_It couldn’t be…_

“As I said, he was an odd one,” Bea sighed. “He’s been gone for some weeks now, used to come in for supper almost every night. I’m afraid something’s happened to him.”

Geralt found his voice, though it sounded hoarse. “What did he look like?”

Bea shrugged. “Like any elf, methinks. Prettier than me, if you can imagine, with dark hair, and a vine tattoo up his neck.”

Geralt shook his head to clear it. He had been mistaken, Bea’s description lacked the most obvious identifier. The brief glimmer of disbelieving hope was snuffed out under reality; the man he thought of was surely dead. There had been no word since Loc Muinne.

He offered Bea a smile of thanks, and was just about to turn towards the stairs when the barmaid let out a delighted yelp.

“Wait, Geralt! Marja! C’mere, darling! Here’s someone you oughta meet!”

Geralt stalled and saw a stocky, tall woman wade through the crowd. She had olive skin and black hair, and eyes so dark brown they seemed black. She was dressed in a purple doublet and black breeches, both well-used but diligently maintained. Atop her curls rested a big hat adorned with a feather which Geralt was willing to bet had come from a cockatrice.

“Bea, kitten,” Marja purred as she reached the bar and reached a hand over it, brushing Bea’s cheek. “How is my favorite barmaid in all of Novigrad doing?”

The witcher was suddenly feeling like an extremely obsolete, third wheel, but Bea only scoffed at the woman, flicking her wide-brimmed hat.

“Keep it in your pants, I’m working until sunrise.” Her eyes moved back to Geralt. “Whereas here’s your chance to do that one good deed of the decade. Meet Geralt of Rivia, witcher. Geralt, Marja Darling, the best captain from here to Kovir and Poviss.”

Geralt set the tankards back down and shook hands with the captain. Marja’s hand was rough and her grip firm.

“A witcher? Now there’s something you don’t see everyday.” Marja’s voice retained the huskiness, but her eyes were growing sharp.

“Do you want me to gawk at you, as well?” Geralt retorted, more out of instinct than any real malice. Witchers were becoming rare, no use denying that.

“Oh, aye, I’m a real specimen,” Marja laughed. “But not for yours to discover, ’m afraid. How can I be of service, Geralt of Rivia?”

“Do you sail to Skellige?”

“I might.” Marja Darling cast an admonishing look at Bea, who stuck out her tongue before grinning. “It’s a rough pass, and winter is nigh.”

“I’m looking for a ship to take me and a friend to Kaer Trolde,” Geralt said. “Happen to know of a few merchants who are looking for having their goods delivered that way, as well.”

Regis’ connections came in useful, Geralt thought, when Marja’s smile widened a fraction.

“Let us talk, Geralt,” she said. “Who is this friend of yours?”

“A barber-surgeon by trade, an honest man,” Geralt said, picking up the tankards. Only when Marja’s eyes fell on them did he realize he had given himself away.

“And he is here,” Marja said in a low voice, sweeping up her own stein and hooking an arm through Geralt’s. “Let us talk.”

The witcher had no other option but to lead Marja downstairs. The bond tugged at him, and he located Regis with ease, and only when they were seated did he actually stop to consider it all.

It was too late, in any case. Marja sat down and looked at Regis for a long while, eyes narrowed.

“So. You’re the barber-surgeon. The friend,” she finally said.

Regis inclined his head. “Emiel Regis, at your service, my lady. You are?”

“Marja Darling,” the captain drawled.

Regis lifted an eyebrow. his familiar tight-lipped smile not falling. “My word. Surely not the same Marja Darling who was responsible for wreaking such havoc amongst the Imperial fleet during the second war?”

Marja Darling smirked. “Might be, might very well not. What would a physician know about that?”

“Oh, a bit of this, a bit of that,” Regis said, leaning back. “Mostly rumors, overheard from the local dockhands. A whisper carried over just the other day, mentioning a vessel by the name Sappho.”

Geralt saw the captain’s pupils dilate in the dim light. Otherwise she betrayed no signs of surprise. She sat back, mirroring Regis’ relaxed pose.

The vampire kept smiling. “Of course, that name is but a rumor nowadays. An echo of a past long forgotten.”

“Aye. An example for us who remain,” she said quietly. Her eyes drifted to Geralt. “A barber-surgeon, you said?” Her tone was more amused than alarmed.

Marja turned her dark eyes back towards Regis. “I might indeed sail for Skellige. I have some business to attend to in Ard Skellig. What draws you there?”

“Work,” Geralt grunted. Marja had clearly become more interested in Regis than him, and his protective instincts were flaring up. “My presence was requested.”

Marja glanced at him. Her eyes remained hooded, but under the heavy lids something intelligent was kindling.

“Queen Cerys an Craite holds you in high regard,” she whispered. “The witcher who oh-so-recently helped to solve the case of the missing daughters. Guardian of Nilfgaard’s crown princess, Cirilla.”

Geralt glared at her, and Marja huffed a laugh as she drank her ale. “Anyone with half a brain knows what happened, dear friend. I’ve been off my ship for five hours, and your name is already familiar to me.”

Regis cleared his throat. “So you know Geralt is trusted by the crown princess. Does that affect your assessment, my lady?”

Marja’s eyes grew sharp again. “I am no lady,” she said. “I’m a captain. You’d do well to remember that, barber-surgeon Emiel Regis.” She was silent for a while. “Rumors have reached me, concerning you as well. I grew up in the Bits, and my friends have smart ears that reach all the way into the imperial court.”

Something hot washed down Geralt’s chest. He carefully set down the tankard. His head was humming; this had been a mistake, and he needed to get them both out of the situation.

The bond engulfed him, dampening the blistering heat of the alarm. Geralt was almost ready to walk out, to call it quits, and then Regis forced him to calm down. The roiling, protective anxiety settled into something manageable, all in the span of a few seconds.

It was enough for Marja Darling.

The captain lifted her chin, looking straight at Geralt for the first time since they had sat down. The feather on her hat quivered, iridescence catching the candlelight.

“I fuck women, witcher. I make no attempts to conceal that.” Marja's voice was strong and calm, and it made Geralt feel young, of all things. He met the dark eyes, sensing Regis hovering on the brink of saying something, too.

“I will take you on board,” Marja Darling went on, when no answer came. “We will sail in two days’ time.”

She stood up, emptying her tankard in one go. “I have things to do and pretty girls to woo, in the meantime,” she added, her tone cool. “I am as I am, and whether there is salty water or solid ground under me feet, it does not change.”

The captain had already turned her back when Geralt sprang to his feet. His chair toppled over as he reached for Marja’s shoulder.

“He is mine,” he hissed. There was something frantic coiling inside him, unlike anything he had ever experienced. It stilled in the moment when Marja’s eyes met his again. A tense eternity passed, and then she smiled.

“Aye, I thought so,” Marja Darling said gently. “Two days, gentlemen.”

***

Regis backed Geralt into the door of their room and kissed him. His tongue thrust into Geralt’s mouth, searching, and was met with a shaky exhalation.

“Let me—let me get the door,” Geralt breathed, but his hands immediately fell back into Regis’ hips, drawing him closer. Regis thrust into his lover’s hip, and swallowed the moan he elicited. His fingers were creeping towards Geralt’s belt, and only the tinkle of the buckle made the witcher surface again.

“ _Godsdamnit,_ Regis,” Geralt grunted. “The door.”

Regis forcefully flipped Geralt around, grinding down against his ass. The witcher bit down on a moan as he fumbled for the key, and then the door fell open and they stumbled through. Regis had just enough of his senses left to kick it closed behind him.

He turned to mist, circling his mate. Geralt let out a breathy laugh at the hot coils caressing him, and Regis could feel him everywhere; returning to a corporeal form was an effort, when his very being could brush against Geralt. But there were things he couldn’t do while immaterial.

Regis pushed Geralt down onto the bed as he materialized again, naked and his human guise slipping partly away. Geralt’s pupils widened into perfect circles, and Regis swooped in for a kiss. His mate laughed, tugging him closer.

Regis tried to refrain from just ripping the shirt and pants off Geralt, allowing his fingers to brush against skin as they worked. When he finally pulled the pants down, Geralt’s hard cock sprang free, and a growl welled up in Regis’ throat.

Laughter bubbled free from Geralt’s mouth, and the bond waved with heat and love.

“You look like you want to eat me whole,” Geralt chuckled, tugging Regis against himself and sliding his hands down to his ass.

“Oh, love, that is quite far down on the list of things I wish to do to you,” Regis purred, his back arching when Geralt pressed an open-mouthed kiss to his collarbone. A hint of teeth followed, and then Regis felt the fangs scrape against his skin.

Outwardly, the only difference in his mate after the experiment at the Moreau lab had been the sharp canines. They that had grown in, and remained there. Regis had tried to hide exactly how much he liked them, but Geralt had seen through him, like he always did.

Feeling the sharp tip press against his collarbone made Regis shudder. Geralt chuckled, but then Regis retaliated by bringing his own teeth to his neck, and the laugh turned into a moan. Regis took care not to break skin, but he was happy to leave a dark bruise when he moved on. Geralt writhed under him, and Regis got an idea.

In one smooth movement, he scooped up the vial of oil and sat up. The room was illuminated only by a candle, and its flickering light brought out the contrasts between them. Geralt’s skin was still pale and scarred, and Regis’ had flushed gray, with familiar hues of black and brown. Geralt’s fingers followed the smattering of freckle-like spots up his side, and his expression turned delighted. Regis poured oil over his lover’s erection and gave him a few languid strokes.

“You’re gorgeous,” Geralt said. Regis laughed, swooping down for another kiss to hide the trace of embarrassment on his face.

He was still not used to how Geralt’s eyes lit up when he shifted. Regis didn’t find appearing human unpleasant by any stretch of imagination, but when he allowed his heart to open as wide as it permitted, his instinct told him to transform. It was possible to resist the temptation, but allowing the chance to wash over him was an intense pleasure. It felt so intimate, and every time he did, Geralt was chipping away at his hesitation.

Regis positioned himself and teased Geralt by rubbing the head of his cock against himself. The witcher blew out a breath.

“You can’t think—” he began, but then Regis sunk down and the rest of the sentence vanished into a groan. Geralt’s hands flew to Regis’ hips, and held on tight as Regis started to ride him.

“You underestimate me, love,” Regis teased. “Like this, I’m a bit different from humans.” It was an effort to keep his voice steady, because Geralt felt indecently good inside him. Regis had half a thought to ask Geralt to fuck him more often, but it vanished as the witcher fumbled with the rest of the oil and managed to spill some on his cock.

Geralt started to stroke Regis, but after a few seconds his eyes widened.

“No way,” he ground out, straining his neck as he craned his head up.

Regis knew what Geralt was looking at, what he had felt against his fingers. Up until now, Regis had held off the extent of his transformation; he kept his claws and teeth human, and he had felt some residual hesitation about this, too.

Geralt ran his thumb along the ridges, and Regis bit back a moan. His lover looked up, and he was grinning so widely the fangs flashed in the dim light.

“Do you have anything else you haven’t shown me yet?” Geralt laughed. He stroked down, once, and then dragged his thumb up the downside of Regis’ cock, drawing a shuddering breath from the vampire.

“No, that’s… that’s quite all,” Regis managed to get out. Suddenly he couldn’t tell what he had been so worried about.

“I’ll remember that,” Geralt whispered, and then he twisted up, bringing Regis on his back with ease and not once dislodging himself. One hand gripped the vampire by the hip, and other continued to explore him.

Geralt thrust deep, and Regis moaned as pleasure slammed into him. The witcher repeated the motion, but then he stalled and leaned down. A hand cupped Regis’ cheek.

“You don’t need to hide parts of you,” Geralt said in a husky voice. “You have me, and I’m not going anywhere.”

Regis gave up trying to hold his feelings at bay, and a second later the bond was alight inside his head. Another wave of hot pleasure traveled down his spine, and Geralt started to fuck him with steady, deep strokes. He was blushing, and as he leaned back to continue stroking Regis’ cock he looked—happy.

The combined relief of letting go of some part of his disguise and the sheer enthusiasm with which Geralt thrust into him brought Regis much higher than normally. There was a tense eternity, where the world around him just ceased to be, and he floated at the crest, until it crashed down and he came, spilling into Geralt’s hand and slamming a hand in front of his mouth to avoid crying out. Geralt let out a hoarse laugh, and a few more thrusts made him follow, hips losing their rhythm.

Geralt collapsed on top of Regis, and the vampire chuckled wearily, wrapping his legs around his hips to hold him in place for a while. Regis felt Geralt smile into his neck, his breaths hot and humid.

“Need more convincing?” Geralt muttered.

“Oh, I should think so,” Regis answered, grinning at his mate as he peered up through his messy hair.

Geralt rolled on his side with a satisfied smile, sprawling on the bed. Regis twisted around to bury his nose into the white hair, scenting him and not even trying to hide what he was doing.

Geralt’s scent was changing, but Regis wasn’t able to put his finger on how. Before the additional mutations it had been a warm mix of leather and human musk, coupled with whatever chemicals he had been working with. Now there was a faint hint of something new, a sharper tang that kept evading Regis.

“Done smelling me?”

“Never.”

Geralt’s laughter rumbled inside his chest. His heart rate was back to the usual crawling pace. Regis arranged himself more comfortably against his side and was almost dozing when Geralt spoke up.

“Sorry about that. Back at the tavern.”

Regis blinked his eyes open. Geralt was staring at the ceiling, pouting. Regis reached for the bond, and a cadence of a memory told him what his mate was talking about.

“I believe I did tell you I’m fine with us keeping our relationship private,” Regis smiled and pressed a kiss to Geralt’s cheek. “You don’t owe it to strangers to spill your secrets.”

Geralt continued looking unhappy.

“Feels like I deny how important you’re to me whenever someone confronts me and I blurt out something stupid.”

Regis pressed the palm of his hand to Geralt’s chest, right on top of his heart.

“It is a necessary precaution,” he said, pushing the bond to show he really, truly didn’t mind. “I feel what you feel, and I trust in this. The opinions of everyone else are inconsequential.”

“Wait ‘til Dandelion works you into one of his ballads,” Geralt grumbled, but he was smiling again and tugging Regis closer. The vampire drew in their mixing scents, finally calling back his human form. Geralt’s eyes followed the shift, and he smiled.

“Feel like falling asleep all filthy, or should we wash?” the witcher muttered, body already going pliant with post-coital calm and tiredness. Regis grunted, before lifting his head.

“I’m not a boor, my love,” he said, trying to sound admonishing but landing closer to amusement.

***

Dettlaff materialized close to the cabaret where Regis and Geralt were staying. Cold hit his face, not unpleasantly, and he tasted falling snow in the air. He took a moment to get his bearings and force some of the apprehension back down. The instinct that had driven him to leave his home and return to Novigrad had been easy to explain to himself; spelling it out to Regis and Geralt would be quite another tale.

Although, Dettlaff thought with a slight smile, they were his pack. Telling anything to them would be vastly easier, because he wouldn’t have to rely on spoken words alone. Regis and even Geralt sensed his moods and feelings, and it would go smoother because of their bond.

Dettlaff sighed as he pulled his collar up. Only one way to find out.

He had to take only a few steps away from the shadow of a building when he saw them in the light of the torches burning along the building’s front. Regis and Geralt were standing outside of the cabaret, conversing with the bard named Dandelion and his partner, the woman with blonde hair. All four of them looked happy, although the witcher was attempting to scowl at something the bard and Regis were saying to him.

Another smile tugged at Dettlaff’s lips. Regis was standing close to Geralt, his hand partly hidden in the folds of the warm cloak he was wearing, but as he moved Dettlaff saw he had hooked one finger around Geralt’s pinky. They seemed utterly comfortable together, the witcher casting amused glances at his mate every now and then, and Regis only just avoiding to show his fangs when he laughed. Regis and Geralt had snow in their hair, and Dettlaff concluded they had probably just arrived back to the Chameleon.

Dettlaff let go of his grip on the bond, and immediately both Regis and Geralt perked up, turning their heads in unison and seeing him. His blood-brother’s face broke into a happy smile as he tugged on Geralt’s sleeve. The witcher chuckled. His face had a hint of wariness, but he was smiling too. Dettlaff walked to them, nodding to the bard and the woman whose name he thought was Priscilla.

Regis’ joy mixed with Geralt’s careful acceptance inside Dettlaff’s head, and his shoulders relaxed. He hadn’t realized how tense he was until seeing his pack put him immediately at ease.

“Dettlaff!” Regis greeted him, grasping his hand and pulling him close. Dettlaff closed his eyes, and the bond rushed to him, soothing away his worries and making things seem manageable. A stray thought nudged him, reminding him again that staying away from his pack wasn’t healthy; they were meant to live closer together, and help each other. That was the whole point of a pack.

“Hello, Regis, Geralt,” Dettlaff said when they pulled back. He shook hands with the witcher, and got a cautious smile from him.

“Good to see you again,” Geralt said in a low voice. Dettlaff felt the honesty and the resultant surprise through the bond, and huffed a dry laugh.

“Likewise.”

Something had changed in Geralt when they had been solving the case of the missing girls. One day he had been a peculiar presence in the periphery of Dettlaff’s senses—there, but only vaguely. And then Dettlaff had gone to meet him and Cirilla, and suddenly Geralt had been inside his head, feeling lost and alarmed, and Dettlaff had recognized that distress. He had reached out instinctively, and Geralt had accepted that.

He felt different from Regis, but he was definitely there, and Dettlaff knew his pack had grown that day. Unexpected, but not unpleasant, as he came to see. The witcher remained shy and cautious, but his residual hostility towards Dettlaff grew weaker. Regis made Dettlaff feel like he always had solid ground under his feet; Geralt had brought with him a fierce sort of gentleness that had helped Dettlaff take a step back when his emotions became overwhelming.

“Come, let us go inside,” Regis said and gestured towards the cabaret. “I feel you have not come here on a holiday.”

Dettlaff nodded, and trailed after the others. The cabaret was as he remembered: warm and inviting, the walls and furniture unmistakably dwarven handiwork. A delicious smell was drifting from the kitchen, and as they took seats in the back corner, Dettlaff allowed the atmosphere to soothe him.

Dandelion pulled Geralt aside, and even when he was whispering, Dettlaff had no trouble hearing him.

“Make sure he behaves, Geralt.”

The witcher snorted. “You’re still afraid of him? After he helped?”

The bard pursed his lips. “Call it sensibility.”

Geralt’s laughter rippled across the bond, and Dettlaff turned his head away. Something about the witcher standing up for him made him almost shy. He caught Regis’ eye and saw his brother had overheard the conversation as well. Regis was hiding a smile behind his hand, feigning a desperate interest in the tapestries. He shook his head and shrugged, and Dettlaff frowned in return.

Geralt joined them soon after, huffing as he sat down and unwound the scarf around his neck. Dettlaff followed his example and shrugged his heavy coat off. He did his best to appear human when surrounded by them, but sometimes it was hard to remember humans reacted to temperature changes in a way a vampire simply didn’t.

Regis smiled to him, cocking his head.

“How are you?”

Dettlaff considered his words for a second and then decided to be blunt.

“I am well. Better now that I am here.”

Geralt frowned, and the bond pulsed with what reminded Dettlaff of a fist unclenching. It was understanding that sparked more questions.

Regis turned to look at his mate and his smile softened around the edges. “A pack fares better when it is together,” he said quietly. “That is the way it’s meant to be.”

Geralt nodded and looked down. He was still looking confused, but the initial hesitation was gone. Dettlaff suspected he’d ask Regis more questions once they were alone. Regis’ hand slipped under the table, and Dettlaff knew it came to rest on Geralt’s knee. The contact soothed the witcher further.

“Seems like I still have a lot of stuff to get used to,” Geralt muttered, and Dettlaff surprised himself with a dry laugh. When the cat eyes met his, he tried to explain.

“You are not the only one.”

Regis’ chuckled fondly, and Dettlaff looked away. The smile remained on his lips as he let his gaze sweep over the other tables, some of them occupied. Dandelion had climbed onto the stage and was coaxing a soft melody out of his lute, the notes filling the pauses in their conversation.

“I haven’t had a pack in two centuries. And being in one with you, witcher, is even more unusual.”

Geralt cast a glance at Regis, who shook his head.

“I haven’t told him,” the vampire said, still smiling. “But you might wish to, at some point.”

Dettlaff knew there was something left unsaid, but he let it rest. Pack was about trust, first and foremost. He and Geralt would forge their own when the time was right.

“I am here because I need to go to Skellige,” Dettlaff said after another pause. His pack mates’ eyes snapped to him, and he felt surprise course through them. He cleared his throat, but as he was about to continue, a low, female voice interrupted them.

“Pardon me, but I’m thinking you’d like to eat.” It was the trobairitz with long, blonde hair and an angry burn scar down her chin. She set down a tray with ale and food.

“Thank you, Priscilla,” Regis nodded. “I trust you remember Dettlaff?”

Dettlaff stood up and bowed to the woman, Priscilla. Her eyes sparkled with mirth as he straightened up.

“Dettlaff van der Eretein. I apologize for the lack of a proper introduction the last time I had the honor of meeting you,” Dettlaff said.

Priscilla waved a hand. Her smile reached her eyes easily, and the scar only seemed to emphasize her beauty.

“Oh, worry not. You were here to help Geralt and Regis. I was only sad you departed so hastily and missed the celebrations,” she said with laughter in her husky voice.

“I am not much for festivities, I’m afraid,” Dettlaff said, a smile tugging at his own lips.

Priscilla chuckled and turned to Regis. “He’s like you, is he not?”

Regis inclined his head in agreement, and only the calming pulse through the bond prevented Dettlaff from pulling in on himself. He turned wary eyes to Priscilla, but she was still smiling and looking at him without a trace of fear.

“I trust Regis, and he told me you’re like a brother to him. Even Geralt trusts you. That is enough for me,” she said quietly and brushed her small hand against his arm. Dettlaff smiled hesitantly, and Priscilla beamed at him before heading back.

When he sat down, he saw Geralt was all but grinning. Dettlaff lifted an eyebrow, and the witcher laughed as he started to eat.

“Trust Priscilla to break through your shell,” he said in explanation. He nudged another plate towards Dettlaff. “Go on, the cook here is very good.”

Dettlaff shrugged and as he picked up the utensils, Regis spoke up.

“You mentioned Skellige?” his brother asked, black eyes curious.

Dettlaff nodded. He paused to chew, realizing only as he swallowed that the food was quite amazing; a simple stew of pork and mushrooms, but clearly made of excellent ingredients and with obvious skill. Geralt saw his expression, and grinned again. Dettlaff caught a glimpse of his teeth, and something seemed odd; it was as if the witcher’s cuspids were sharper than what was normal for humans.

He realized his companions were waiting for an explanation, and filed the curiosity away for later inspection.

“I had a…feeling,” Dettlaff said quietly. “I feel I need to go to Skellige.”

It was woefully bad, as far as explanations went, but Dettlaff didn’t know how he could hope to grasp the pull that had started in his dreams and then crept into lucid daylight, until he knew he needed to reach his pack and consult them.

To his surprise, no questions immediately followed. Geralt was frowning, and Regis looked between the two.

“Didn’t Cerys an Craite say she has work for you?” Regis asked, and the witcher nodded. Dettlaff felt a bit lost, but then Regis turned to him.

“We’re setting sail to Ard Skellig on the morrow,” he said in a low tone. “Queen Cerys has requested Geralt’s presence.”

Some of the unease the calling had created eased away inside Dettlaff’s chest.

“You’re both going?”

Geralt nodded as he leaned back and folded his arms. “Yes. And I hope this feeling of yours has nothing to do with whatever Cerys needs me for. I would rather avoid messing with higher vampires.” He cast a sidelong glance at Regis. “Well. Most of them.”

Regis rolled his eyes, and Dettlaff suppressed a smile. The witcher pinned him down with his golden eyes.

“Is it a similar feeling you told me you have of people sometimes?”

Dettlaff remembered the discussion, how he had told Geralt his gut told him whether people were to become somehow important to him. It had been after Regis had been injured, and both of them had realized they were starting to lose the hostility towards each other.

Dettlaff considered the question for a moment before nodding. “Yes and no. It is much more vague. I can’t grasp it firmly enough to determine what is causing it.”

Geralt tugged at his ponytail as he mulled over the answer. “Do you have foresight or something?”

The query made Dettlaff blink. For a while, he heard another voice asking about his abilities; an age-old echo he hadn’t thought about in well over three centuries. He wrenched himself free of the memory and shook his head, hesitant.

“I wouldn’t call it that, no.”

Geralt looked at Regis, but his brother only spread his hands and looked apologetic.

“I am as much in the dark as you, I’m afraid,” Regis said. “As I explained, our abilities are unique and they continue developing throughout our lives.”

Geralt heaved a sigh, but acquiesced with no fuss. Still, there wasn’t a trace of enmity in him, and it confused Dettlaff. The last time they met, mistrust was still there, slowly being eroded but with such firm roots Dettlaff had known it would take years and effort to make it relent.

And now that suspicion had evaporated, and it left Dettlaff feeling like he couldn’t see where he was going.

”Would you mind if I joined you on your trip?” he asked to take his mind off the confusion.

Geralt shrugged. “Why not. But I’m not sure the captain will take you on.”

Dettlaff shook his head as he finished his stew. “I am not fond of traveling by a ship. I will meet you in Ard Skellig.”

Regis nodded, his familiar smile in place as he let a hand rest on Dettlaff’s shoulder. “We can meet in Kaer Trolde harbor. The trip shouldn’t take more than eight days.” He looked at Geralt and went on: “Somehow, I have a good feeling about this. I, too, feel better now that we’re all here.”

To Dettlaff’s surprise, Geralt gave a gruff nod. The witcher didn’t elaborate, but Dettlaff felt no dishonesty from him. His mind was a steadfast background hum inside Dettlaff, grounding him just enough to make it pleasant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm giving everyone a free pass to bitch at me to finish writing this sucker. And naturally, comments and kudos give me life. :) <3


	2. Submerge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2! Thank you for all the lovely comments and kudos. <3 I've been having a rough go with my depression lately, but having this story keeps me afloat a little better. Still can't make any promises when this will be finished, but I promise I'm working on it.
> 
> Meanwhile, I'm working with my betas to get the finished chapters into publishable condition. Beta for chapter 2 by [Tsurai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsurai/pseuds/tsurai). :)
> 
> Let's set sail.

The morning dawned cold and hazy. Sea was smoking, and the rising sun was making everything glow in shades of pale gold and bluish grays. The harbor was already full of activity as Geralt and Regis made their way towards Marja Darling’s ship, Arlene. She was anchored near the Golden Sturgeon, and Geralt saw the captain talking with Bea near the ship. Around them, women and men were carrying the last supplies and parcels to be loaded.

“It’s a beautiful vessel,” Regis murmured as they drew closer. “Much lighter than merchant vessels typically.”

Geralt cast an eye over Arlene, and came to the same conclusion. She was built for speed and maneuverability, not carrying heavy loads of goods.

“What did you mean by asking Marja Darling about that other ship?” Geralt asked. Regis smiled, glancing around to make sure no one was listening in.

“Sappho was an infamous pirate ship. It was said her crew would strike out from fog, rob and kill any males onboard, and take young girls as their hostages.”

“And Marja Darling sailed Sappho?” Geralt asked. He looked at the captain, who was whispering something to Bea. The barmaid was laughing and blushing, her fingers playing on the lapels of Marja’s coat.

“No one but herself knows, I’d say,” Regis hummed. “No one knows what happened to Sappho. Some years ago the vessel vanished without a trace.”

Geralt chuckled. “So it could be we’re sailing to meet the pirate queen on a former pirate’s ship. Fitting.”

Regis smiled and then bowed to Marja Darling as they arrived next to the ship.

“Good morning captain, miss Bea,” he said.

Bea nodded her head and winked at Geralt. “Didn’t I say?” she asked. “Marja will take care of you both.”

Marja Darling grinned, and one golden canine flashed in the pale morning sunlight. Geralt followed her eyes as they flickered between him and Regis. He was curious about the captain, but at the same time something nagged at him.

“All ready, my good men?” Marja asked. “We will sail in half an hour. My first mate Usamea will show you to your cabin. You can find her on the deck, she is the Aen Seidhe with a red scarf.”

Usamea turned out to be a tall elf with a missing ear and a quick smile. Geralt saw her shouting orders to the milling sailors, sitting on a barrel and playing with a knife. He spent a few seconds watching her spin the blade, easy and sleek, until he walked up.

“You’re the first mate?”

Usamea’s moss green eyes met his and she gave him a smile. “Aye, I’m Marja’s useful hand,” she said. She gestured towards the rest of the crew. “I keep us alive, for the most part.”

“Oi, Sam, no tellin’ lies,” a dark-skinned woman hollered from where she was tying up cargo. She laughed as Usamea made a rude gesture in her direction.

The elf turned to look at Geralt and Regis. “So you’re the gentlemen we’re supposed to take to Ard Skellig. What can you tell me about yourselves?”

Geralt was taken aback. Usamea didn’t seem dangerous, but he had seen how she handled that knife.

Regis smiled to the first mate. “As you can see, Geralt is a witcher. Queen Cerys has requested his presence in Kaer Trolde.”

“Ah, so business as usual,” Usamea grinned. “The pirate queen knows how to pick her champions.”

Geralt couldn’t tell where her accent was coming from, but something about her drawling manner of speech was reminding him of his Scoia’tael friends.

“What about you, master?” the elf went on, addressing Regis. “What brings you to Skellige?”

Geralt glanced at Regis, who met Usamea’s eyes without once looking uncomfortable.

“I’m here to help,” Regis said quietly, “in any way I can.”

Usamea’s eyes narrowed, and she looked at Geralt. She jumped down from her perch, and the witcher saw she was an inch or so taller than him. She sheathed the knife in a fluid motion and pointed towards the door behind her.

“Your cabin is here. Let me show you.”

The cabin turned out to be a small, dim room with two tiny windows. Usamea opened the door for Geralt and pressed the key into his palm with a wink, before disappearing back onto the deck. When the witcher walked in, he saw there was only one bed. He let his bags fall down and he sat down, rubbing his eyes.

“Damn that woman.”

Regis sat down next to him and pressed close.

“So she knows we’re together. From what she said, I’d surmise this is her way of showing kindness,” the vampire murmured, stroking Geralt’s back. “At least we don’t have to sleep separately.”

Geralt chuckled. “Yeah. Although in this bed it will be more like sleeping on top of each other.”

Regis laughed, brushing a kiss against the witcher’s cheek before getting back on his feet. “Let us worry about that later. Come, I’d like to watch us set off.”

The sun was slowly making its way higher, and a lazy, cold wind was starting to blow when Geralt and Regis made their way to the deck. They took care to stay out of the way as the crew started to work the sails, leaning on the banister and watching as dockhands tugged the ropes free. The deck gave a faint lurch as the ship started to move.

Geralt felt Regis brushing against himself as they watched the harbor drift away. Novigrad was slowly waking up, and the witcher’s ears picked up ringing bells and shouts, but they were growing distant; the sea was taking them away, and soon the dominant sounds came from creaking wood and water, ever moving and glistening in steely grays and blues in the light of the morning.

“We’re on our way,” Regis said quietly. Geralt looked at him, and the vampire smiled. The bond enveloped them both, and Geralt pressed a touch closer, because no matter where they were headed, they were going together.

Once Novigrad was growing distant and the cold wind picked up, a shout interrupted the general murmur of activity.

“Crew! Listen up!”

It was Marja Darling, leaning on the helm and smiling widely. Her eyes met Geralt’s before she turned to address the crew. Suddenly Geralt realized he and Regis were the only men he could see.

“We’re bound for Ard Skellig!” Marja Darling’s voice carried easily over the whispering wind, and everyone on deck seemed to be listening intently. “And now that dry land is behind us once again, we are the free company!”

A wild cheer went up, scaring a seagull that had been circling the ship. Geralt frowned and looked around, to the cheering women, each dressed as a sailor and no one looking like they didn’t know exactly what they were doing.

“Free company!” A shout broke through the sea smoke as Marja Darling laughed and gave the helm a spin.

***

“We’re the only men aboard,” Geralt said as he sat down on the bed and started to work his boots off. They had dined with the crew, and Geralt had told them stories about his trips as they ate. Regis had been a steady background hum inside his head all the time, sitting with Usamea and discussing the ship’s medical supplies.

Geralt had watched the women move and interact, and had been struck how different it seemed from what he was used to; all of them seemed so certain. They joked and laughed together, argued and bristled, but none seemed wary of anything, save for the two male passengers. Even that was more like curiosity than actual fear.

He had also seen two women kissing each other, familiar and clearly not afraid of being seen. Marja Darling’s words at the tavern floated back to him, and Geralt felt an odd mixture of relief and unease.

“So it would seem,” Regis answered as he hung his cloak to dry. The vampire had been stargazing after supper, and wind had thrown seawater over the edges. He turned to look at Geralt and smiled. “Does it bother you?”

“I’d be the biggest hypocrite in the world if it did,” Geralt shrugged. He laid his armor down on a bench and shucked off the shirt before lying down. “It seems Marja has handpicked her crew.”

Regis hummed in agreement. “It’s fascinating. I talked with Usamea, and she told me she has been working for Marja ever since she left the fighting five years ago.”

At Geralt’s questioning look, Regis smiled wider, eyes crinkling. “She used to run with the Squirrels. Surely you noticed how she handled that knife?”

Geralt nodded. “So she’s former Scoia’tael, on top of sailing on a ship full of women.” He leaned back and stretched. “Definitely one of the more unusual trips.”

“With your experience, that is saying something,” Regis murmured as he laid down next to Geralt and pulled the blanket over them. The vampire slotted himself around his lover with ease and settled down with his face pressed into Geralt’s neck.

“Not bad weird though,” Geralt said quietly. “It’s nice to see there are places for women where they don’t have to be afraid of men.”

“They are certainly not afraid of us.”

Geralt made a laugh as he buried his hand into Regis’ hair and shifted a bit closer.

“They seem to know we’re together. I figure they think we have as much to lose as they do.”

“Being able to be with you during the trip, without having to worry about getting caught is pleasant. I’m not going to lie about that,” Regis said. His voice was warm, and as Geralt twisted around to catch his eyes, the vampire kissed him. They melted together, and Geralt smiled against Regis’ lips.

“Yeah. That’s not so bad,” he whispered.

***

The next days passed quietly. Geralt roped one of the deckhands, a cheerful ginger by the name of Walma, teaching him how the ship works. He knew they had paid for their journey, even more than was customary, but the thought of sitting still while there was work to be done was uncomfortable. He learned the ropes (figuratively and literally) quickly enough, and as he worked in the freezing wind and traded jests with Walma, he could feel Marja Darling watching him. The captain kept her distance, but whenever their eyes met, Geralt saw she was looking thoughtful and satisfied.  


Regis and Usamea formed a tentative friendship. Geralt watched Regis come and go from the officers’ lodgings, treating anything from wounds to more severe ailments that had accumulated. By the fourth day, it seemed that everyone on the ship knew Regis by name. While Geralt usually ate with Walma, Regis had a rapt audience on every supper as he shared stories. Geralt saw how much his mate was enjoying the trip, simply because he had a place among the crew and a purpose to fulfill.

On the fifth day’s evening clouds started to gather. Geralt watched them on the deck, and he could taste snow in the air. The trip up until now had been calm, the sea carrying them gently towards the islands.

“It’s gonna get ugly, pretty boy,” Walma chuckled. Geralt met her blue eyes in the dim light of the torches. Walma was close to forty, stocky, and beautiful in a way that was easy to ignore at a quick glance. She spoke with a faint accent that Geralt placed somewhere north of Toussaint.

Walma swiped her mane of red hair out of her eyes and tied it back in a messy knot.

“It will be storm,” she said as she tugged on cargo ropes to see they were tight enough. “So stay off the deck once the wind gets going. If you thought it has been cold, you ain’t seen much yet.”

“Got it,” Geralt smiled. He had forgone wearing his armor while onboard Arlene, opting for warm clothes, and only carrying one sword.

Walma tilted her head. By now, Geralt knew she was considering a question when she did that. He let her work out the words in silence as they tied the rest of the stuff down and then made their way to the mess.

The low, long room was already filled with most of the crew, eating and laughing away. It was apparently one of the nights when they were going to have wine with the food, and Geralt received a few sets of nods and smiles as he sat down. Living on the ship was rough, but mentally comfortable.   


Once they had their food and wine in front of them, Walma nudged his elbow and cleared her throat.

“Spit it out,” Geralt said. He knew Walma was inquisitive, but not malicious.

“Alright, witcher,” she growled, humor lacing her words. “What’s your story with the barber-surgeon?”

Geralt looked to the other end of the table. Regis was sitting with Marja Darling and Usamea, but met his eyes and smiled warmly. The bond rippled with feeling.

“A long one,” Geralt said. He had known Walma would broach the topic at some point. He had by now come to the conclusion that matters of love were discussed and acted out freely aboard Arlene.

Walma punched his shoulder and rolled her eyes. “You two share a cabin.”

“Not much room on the ship,” Geralt muttered, trying to stifle his smile. He kept waiting for the apprehension and need to clam up, but the days spent among the crew were rubbing off on him; he wasn’t afraid he’d be judged for loving Regis.

Fucking with Walma was just too much fun.

Walma heaved a sigh and took a gulp of wine. “You’re one stubborn idiot, witcher. How does your man handle that?”

“If you think I’m stubborn, you clearly haven’t talked to Regis very much,” Geralt laughed. Regis’ black eyes flashed his way again, and the vampire lifted an eyebrow in question. Around them, twenty or so women were talking and laughing, drawing joy and comfort from the shared space and their way of being exactly what they were.

Walma grinned. “Aye. He helped me the other day with a small personal matter. Awfully polite fellow. If he was a lady, we’d snatch him away on our ship before you knew what hit him.”

“I bet. Too bad he’s mine.”

Saying the words felt good. They had weight, and an echo of them carried over the bond. Regis didn’t look at Geralt, but the witcher saw him smile softly and relax. Love rushed to him when Geralt turned back to Walma.

“We met years ago, when I was looking for my surprise daughter. He decided to tag along me and a group of friends.”

“And?” Walma’s voice dropped and she smiled, gentleness replacing the jesting.

Geralt looked down, biting his lip and considering the words. He knew what he wanted to say. Maybe this here was the one chance in his life to tell a story of how he had fallen in love without the listener judging him.

“And I fell for him immediately,” Geralt said as his smile became a touch embarrassed. Thinking back, it seemed so long ago. “He was just as compelling then as he is now.”

Walma took his hand and squeezed. “I’m sensing a but.”

Geralt sighed. “We were… separated. It took us seven years to find each other again. We’ve been together after that.”

“I’m sorry,” Walma said. “But I’m also happy for you.”

Geralt glanced at her. “What about you? Got somebody waiting for you somewhere?”

“I used to,” Walma whispered. Her eyes glistened, but she held Geralt’s gaze. “My love was a smith in Toussaint. We had ten good years together.”

A silence fell, and Geralt held Walma’s hand as she sipped her wine. Finally she heaved a sigh.

“She died over a decade ago. A vampire attacked the village she lived in, and my Ellanore was one of the victims. It took two witchers almost a fortnight to hunt down the devil. An alp, they called it.”

A rush of grief went through Geralt. “I’m sorry.”

Walma nodded and wiped her eyes. “Me too. I left Toussaint soon after that, wandered a bit, robbed people on the roads.” She cast a sly glance at Geralt. “I have never been from a good family. My Ellanore kept me good, and once she was gone I turned into a brigand once again. I ran my own gang for a few years in Sodden, until I was chased out. Then, one night in Attre, I challenged a foreign woman into a drinking contest. It was the night I passed out with my head in Marja Darling’s lap and ended up listing into her crew.”

Geralt tried to see if Walma was pulling his leg, but the woman grinned and shrugged. “As I said, no good families here. Only a ragtag team of girls and women who misbehave.”

“I’m starting to see the appeal,” Geralt laughed.

Regis found Geralt after supper. They stalled for a bit, letting the crew file out of the mess. Geralt could hear the wind rushing and howling outside, and snow was flying through the dark air.

“What were you and Walma talking about?” Regis asked as he pressed close and nuzzled Geralt’s neck. “You felt shy and happy just then.”

“She asked about us,” Geralt murmured, burying his hands under the cloak and holding Regis close. “So I told her.”

Geralt kissed Regis, for once just happy to do so and not caring if someone saw them. Regis relaxed against him, hands coming to clutch the sword belt that crossed Geralt’s chest.

“Mm. Might I interest you in joining me in our cabin?” the vampire whispered against his lips. “I have never had the chance to make love while out on sea.” The words were followed with a grin, and heat started to pool in Geralt’s belly.

Crossing the deck was hard, because the wind was trying to rip them out to the water. Snow stung Geralt’s face as he made the walk with Regis, and the deck rocked beneath their feet. He glanced towards the back of the ship, wondering who was the unlucky person to draw steering duty for the night.

Suddenly Regis stopped and peered into the night. Geralt turned his eyes against the wind, but saw only whirling snow, white against the black of the storm.

“What is that?” Regis muttered. His hand grasped Geralt’s. “Look, over there. A light.”

Geralt walked to the banister, holding on to Regis and trying to prevent his teeth from chattering. He hadn’t bothered to button up his outermost layer, thinking they’d be going straight back to the cabin.

“Don’t see anything,” he said. Regis frowned.

“It’s right over there, look—“

The siren propelled itself out of the water in a spray of freezing droplets. Geralt managed to dodge the claws that passed an inch from his face, but they caught his clothes. The siren made an ungodly screech as it _wrenched_ , and suddenly he was falling.

World tilted this way, that way, and Geralt hit his head on the side of the ship before plummeting into freezing seawater. The siren was tangled up with him, and he felt claws tear into his chest. He had a passing thought about his armor, but even getting the sword out when he was quickly pushed underwater was hard. He saw a flash of light above himself and knew he was submerged so deep there was no way he’d be fished out unless he managed to kill the monster.

His body was growing stiff and clumsy in the cold water as he fumbled for the sword. Salt stung his eyes, but Geralt forced himself to keep them open. The siren was trying to wrap its tail around him, pushing him still deeper, and just as Geralt unsheathed the sword, it bit down on his wrist. Dull, distant pain pulsated from the point, and Geralt felt horror claw him as his fingers spasmed and opened, releasing the sword.

The blade was gone before he could even understand it. Geralt writhed against the suffocating squeeze, and the siren flashed its teeth as it kept biting him.

It was so cold. Gods, he couldn’t remember when he was last warm and could feel his fingers and toes. His body was struggling to hold the breath inside his lungs, but his diaphragm was seizing up in the water. Bursts of bubbles escaped his lips, and distant lights far above twinkled like indifferent stars. Geralt twisted around, and the siren squeezed.

Something crashed through his head, and sheer fear ripped everything to shreds. The world took a red tint around the edges, and before he knew what he was doing, Geralt surged forward and sunk his teeth into the siren’s neck. He felt tearing flesh, and kept his jaw clenched despite the rush of salty blood making him gag. His head felt like it would explode, because something fierce and hot was taking over it. Sensible thoughts flickered out one by one.  


The world seemed to fade away, and the cold penetrated even further as they struggled, so deep now that the lights disappeared into the murky distance. Geralt tried to hold on to some semblance of coherence, but he knew he was drowning; in the sea, but also inside his head. The last conscious thought was of Regis.

***

The sight of white hair in the black water punched a shout from Regis’ throat. The islander women who had been hanging from the ship’s side for the past minutes started yelling, and once they secured a grip around the witcher, they were hoisted back on board in one wet, miserable bundle.

The witcher collapsed down on the deck, and Regis was by him in an instant. He wanted to shift, wanted to carry his mate inside, but he knew he couldn’t; they would be cast adrift if he revealed his true nature, and then Geralt would not make it.

Walma and Usamea were by his side before he did anything stupid. The two women took Geralt’s feet, and together they carried him inside. Wind kept driving more snow their way, and in the distance Regis heard more sirens wailing. Geralt was pale and his clothes were torn, blood seeping through sluggishly.

As they finally lowered him down, he coughed up a lungful of seawater, and Regis feared his heart might finally give out. Relief made him dizzy.

“We need warm water!” Usamea shouted, and Regis heard scrambling footsteps and commands being shouted. “Regis, get him out of those clothes, I’ll be right back. Walma, come on!”

He kneeled down on the floor of what he thinks must be Usamea’s cabin, and begun to strip the sodden clothing off.

Or attempted to.

In a flash, Regis found himself pinned down. Cold water and blood dripped on him. Geralt’s eyes were wild and vacant, burst blood vessels made them seem like those of a feral animal, and he snarled when Regis tries to move. The vampire stilled, because even if he could dislodge the witcher, doing so would hurt them both.

Geralt bared his teeth, and the sharp canines flashed in the low light. He was breathing harshly, gulping down air through his raw throat, and Regis winced at the wheezing sound. Instead of moving, he willed his body go slack. Despite his instincts screaming, Regis closed his eyes and reached for the bond.

Fear hit him. Geralt’s mind was a jumble or terror, pain, and cold that seeped into him. The witcher was far away, retreated into a dark corner inside his head; Regis didn’t know if was a witcher trait, or something brought on by the mutation he underwent in the Moreau lab. Regis pressed calm into the bond, grappling for something that he could hold on to.

Finally, there was a thought. It was a wordless plea, and Regis cradled it against himself, and called his mate back from the dark. Little by little, the roiling terror abated, and then Regis felt the grip on his wrists loosen. When he opened his eyes, Geralt was already pulling back. His eyes were still alarmed, but now there was a spark of coherence in them.

“Geralt.”

Regis whispered his name, and the witcher looked at him. A tense second passed, and then Geralt’s mind surged back like a wave crashing against rocks. The bond started to go haywire, and Regis dragged Geralt closer. His own breaths were starting to come in frantic gasps, because right then he understood how close he had just come to losing his mate.

Geralt’s icy hands buried themselves into Regis’ hair and the witcher crashed their mouths together. The kiss was all teeth and relief, and Regis whimpered into it. The vampire felt hot tears against his cheeks, and once he pulled back he had to restrain himself from diving right back into another kiss.

“Geralt, love, let me get those clothes off,” Regis rasped. “They’re bringing water, we need to warm you up. You’re bleeding, damn that creature. Oh my dear, I’m so sorry.” He knew he was babbling, but Geralt clung to his words.

The witcher allowed Regis to strip himself, and once Usamea came back with three other women, they hauled out a tub and poured in several buckets of warm water.

Regis helped Geralt into the tub. The witcher’s body was starting to shiver and shake, and Regis cradled his head against his chest and tried to will the tears away. He didn’t spare a single thought to who might see and what they might think. He needed to know Geralt was alive.  


Once the worst shivers died away, Regis reluctantly extracted himself. The wounds on Geralt’s chest and sword arm were starting to bleed more once his body warmed up, and Regis took the offered supplies from Walma with a silent nod. Geralt’s head lolled sideways as he tried to stay awake, his face turning into a grimace when Regis started stitching.

“We’ve never seen sirens this far out,” Walma whispered after a long silence. Regis glanced at her, and saw her brushing her fingers through Geralt’s hair. The witcher had allowed his eyes to slip closed, but Regis knew he was trying to stay awake.

“He was underwater so long I thought… that even a witcher wouldn’t…” Walma’s voice trailed off, and Regis looked down as he felt his throat close up.

“I know.”

Walma was about to say something, but then the door opened and Usamea came back in with Marja Darling. The captain looked pale.

“What the hell happened?” Marja asked, running a hand through her messy hair. Regis saw her coat was thrown on haphazardly and her shoes were unbuckled. Her customary hat was nowhere to be seen.  


“A siren dragged Geralt overboard,” Regis said quietly. His voice felt hoarse from all the shouting.

“A siren?” Usamea croaked out. “We’re miles and miles off the shore. There are no bloody sirens out here!”

Marja Darling glared her first mate into silence. “They have been venturing out for the past two years or so,” she said in a pensive tone. “I just never thought they’d attack a large ship in the middle of the winter.” Her dark eyes found Geralt again, lying in the tub and his head leaning against Walma’s shoulder. “Is he going to make it?”

“Yes,” Regis said. “I’ve stitched his wounds, and we’ve got him warmed up. I will take him to bed next.” He winced at the choice of words, but no one seemed to be paying them any attention.

“You can stay here for the night,” Usamea grunted, nodding towards the bed. “This cabin is much warmer than yours.”

“We couldn’t—” Regis begun, but Usamea shook her head.

“You’re not the only stubborn one, master Regis. Besides,” she added in a quieter tone, “I know who he is and what he did for my kind during the war.”

Regis must’ve look baffled, because suddenly Usamea unwound the red scarf and revealed an intricate tattoo; leaves and flowers flowed down her neck, disappearing under her soaked overcoat.

“You have one too,” a husky, strained voice surprised them all. Regis saw Geralt had opened his eyes. The witcher looked ready to pass out, but his golden eyes remained fixed on Usamea.

“That I do,” the elf said. “We all got ‘em together. We’re siblings in the eyes of the forest.”

Geralt swallowed heavily, and Regis supported his weight as he dragged himself out of the tub. Walma wrapped a blanket over his shoulders, and Geralt managed a weak smile in thanks. Then he looked back at Usamea.

Before Geralt could speak, the elf was wrapping the scarf back around her neck and gestured towards the bed. “Later, witcher. You need to sleep and heal.”

Regis agreed with the sentiment, and after a moment they had Geralt tucked in. Walma brushed her fingers through his hair once more before scowling.

“Let that be the last time you scare me,” she snapped. “I can’t go on worrying about men at this age, you hear me?”

Geralt’s eyes were slipping closed, but he smiled faintly.

“Sorry.”

“You are an idiot. You’re lucky you have a man like Regis to keep you alive,” Walma said, her blue eyes laughing as they met Regis’.

“I know,” Geralt mumbled, and then sleep took him. 

Regis sat down, feeling wrung out. He looked at Geralt's sleeping face, still pale, and saw a bruise was forming along his jawline. He was startled out of his glum reverie by Walma digging out a hip flask and tossing it to him. Regis caught it and looked at the red-haired woman in question.

“Have some. You look haggard.”

Regis uncorked the flask and took a swig. Spirit burned its way down his throat, and chased away some of the frozen stupor. He returned the flask to Walma, who nodded and turned to leave. She glanced back before closing the door.

“Sleep with him. He needs you,” she said, and left before Regis could come up with an answer.

***

Geralt woke up slowly. He was aware of Regis sleeping curled around him, in a bed much bigger than he remembered from the previous nights. He spent a good while floating in the half-awake state, feeling Regis breathing steadily.

Slowly the previous night returned. First came a shiver, a residual shake when he remembered the cold. Then the witcher felt the healing wounds on his chest and arm. He shifted to touch them, and Regis woke up. The vampire blinked as he lifted his head. His eyes seemed even more bloodshot than usually. They stared at each other for a long while, as if to commit every tiny detail to memory. Regis was looking distraught.

“How are you feeling, love?” he finally asked. His words caught in his throat.

Geralt pulled him into a kiss, and Regis came willingly, settling on top of him, ever mindful of his wounds. It lasted for a small eternity, and Geralt held Regis against himself tight. There was a hollow echo inside him that he wanted to erase.

When Regis finally pulled back he looked wrecked.

“I thought I'd lose you,” he said. “I thought I'd lose my mind.”

“I'm here,” Geralt said, but he knew what Regis was talking about. He had felt that, the bottomless horror tearing through them both when Geralt had understood he might drown.

“You helped me out,” the witcher added. When Regis looked confused, he tried to explain. “I killed the siren, but I only managed because you kept reaching for me.”

“What happened?” Regis asked, settling against Geralt's side.

Geralt closed his eyes and tried to remember. Everything was shrouded in a mix of light and shadow, and all-encompassing cold. He remembered drawing his sword, and the siren biting him, and…

“I lost the sword,” Geralt whispered. Sadness followed at the heels of the memory, and Regis felt it too. The vampire pulled him closer and brushed lips against his temple.

“I lost Aerondight.”

“I'm so sorry,” Regis said quietly. He frowned. “If you lost the sword, how did you kill the siren?”

Geralt drew in a breath as a recollection of sheer violence and feral rage resurfaced. It crashed through him, and Regis’ eyes widened as he felt its echo.

“I… I killed it,” Geralt murmured. “I ripped its throat out.”

It came out raw and shameful, like a confession. For a while, he tried to absorb that, and then Regis pushed him down with a fierce look.

“You did what was necessary to survive.”

Geralt swallowed bile. “I took it out like an animal.”

Regis shook his head and continued frowning, eyes burning. “You came back. That's what matters.”

“I was like a rabid dog down there,” Geralt said, trying to look away and battling the disgust that was swallowing him. “There's something seriously wrong with me—”

He didn't get to finish his sentence, because suddenly Regis straddled him with an honest-to-gods growl and held him in place. The vampire looked livid, and he held the change off with visible effort, something wild flashing through his face.

“You came back to me,” he breathed, before kissing Geralt. The witcher tried to hang on, but Regis had him pinned down, and when they finally parted he was wide-eyed and panting. The bond was rippling madly, burning away fear.

“You are  _ mine _ , and I won't let you die,” Regis went on. His eyes flared black as he bent down and licked a hot stripe up Geralt's neck. It was followed with a hint of teeth before he bit down, hard enough to bruise.

Geralt whimpered as his hips bucked. Regis blew hot breaths across the slick skin.

“You are mine,” Regis repeated, quieter. “We belong together. “

He seemed to shake himself awake at that. When Geralt met his eyes again, they were gentle and tired again. A hint of color was rising on Regis’ cheeks as he glanced at the angry bruise he had left. He attempted to roll off, but Geralt held on to him.

“Hey, talk to me,” Geralt said. He brushed a hand into Regis’ hair, black and gray sliding through his fingers. “What was that?”

Regis was definitely blushing as much as a vampire could. He bit his lip, and Geralt felt something age-old shift through the bond. It disappeared before he managed to grasp it.

“I brought you back from the sea,” Regis finally said. “A mate always knows how to help their other half. I broke through the bond, into your head.” He looked away, blinking rapidly. “I'm sorry it was unpleasant.”

Geralt stared. “And that, just now?”

“You make me act more like… like a vampire,” Regis confessed softly, finally meeting Geralt's eyes again. “I feel a need to claim you.”

“You have me already,” Geralt said, and Regis sighed and nodded.

“It is not a rational thing. I just felt like I needed to make sure you wouldn't slip away from me. Yesterday by forcing you to fight like I do, and now to fight off your personal distress. I'm sorry.“

Geralt's eyes widened. “What are you apologizing for? You saved me yesterday.”

Regis was still looking conflicted and miserable, so Geralt growled and flipped them around, looming over him.

“There is nothing I wouldn't do to stay with you,” Geralt said so quietly the words were almost lost to the creaking of the ship around them. Regis relaxed finally, and pulled him into another kiss, much gentler this time.

A knock at the door startled them both. Regis rolled out of the bed and went to open the door. Geralt turned to look, still a bit shaken by the outbursts, but the sight of Walma carrying a tray full of food lifted his spirits considerably.

“Aren’t you looking perky,” the woman said as she laid the tray down. “A little bath does wonders to your health, innit?” She crossed her arms and leaned against the bedpost.

“Sure, and a little wrestling match with a siren makes for a good evening exercise,” Geralt said with a chuckle as he started to eat. He was starving.

Walma shuddered. “Never seen one of the she-devils out here. They usually appear once we sail past Undvik, and rarely bother as big a ship as ours.”

Regis sat down on the bed and helped himself to some bread and eggs. “Thank you for your help yesterday. I need to tell the first mate her cabin will be free soon enough.”

Walma waved a hand. “We’re the free company. We help each other, and anyone who’s not a complete jerk.”

Geralt lifted an eyebrow, and Walma saw the gesture. She smirked. “Oh, not tellin’ you more, pretty boy. You’re the wrong sex to sail with us.”

Regis laughed, and as he engaged Walma in a discussion about the rest of the journey, Geralt let his mind drift. Physically, he was recovering with all the usual speed, but his mind felt hollow. There was a persistent echo that tasted of seawater and cold.

 

Geralt spent the day eating and resting. Regis disappeared for a few hours to treat a bout of fever that was threatening to overtake one of the cooks, but he came back before supper. Geralt was just waking up from a nap, and feeling much better.

“Do you want to go and eat with the others?” Regis asked as he shook snow from his hair.

“Hell yes. I’ll go mad if I have to stay cooped up,” Geralt said as he got up and stretched. The stitches gave a warning throb, but he knew they would be good to come out by tomorrow.

He pulled on his warm cloak, but when he tried to open the door Regis gripped him by the hips and backed him into it. The vampire tucked his head into Geralt’s neck and inhaled deeply, and Geralt smiled as he wrapped his arms around him. They stayed there for a while, breathing in the calm and letting the bond make waves inside their heads; it was once again flowing like a stream, bright and comforting.

“I love you,” Regis murmured. His hands tightened, and Geralt let his eyes slip closed.

“I love you too.”

The mess erupted into happy cheers when Geralt entered. He scowled, but had to fight down a smile as Usamea pulled up a chair and dragged him down. Regis sat down next to him, and bowls of soup appeared before them.

“Well, all better?” the dark-skinned woman they had seen the first day asked. She had finished eating and was braiding the hair of a young girl, who couldn’t be much older than eighteen.

“Please, one siren?” Geralt scoffed, but that only made the women laugh more. As they ate, they kept on a happy background hum of chatter. It brought back memories of staying with a band of friends or comrades.

“What makes sirens venture so far out?” Geralt asked Usamea. The elf shrugged.

“Who knows. Maybe the islanders are driving them away. Maybe sea currents are changing. Pick your favorite.”

Geralt continued eating, but he cast a glance at the elf. “So, about that tattoo of yours…”

Usamea’s eyes flashed. She shook her head.

“Not here. Come see me after supper, if you need to know.”

“Is he alive?” Geralt whispered so silently only she could hear it.

Usamea’s face remained blank. “Watch your step, dh’oine.”

She departed soon after with no backward glance. Geralt looked at Regis, who was trying and failing to look curious. The witcher smiled faintly.

“It seems we have a friend in common,” he said quietly, nodding towards the door Usamea had disappeared through.

“Another Aen Seidhe?” Regis whispered.

“And not just any elf,” Geralt nodded, “but the commander, or a former one, of the last Scoia’tael unit.”

Regis’ eyes widened. “So the tales about you knowing him are true?”

Geralt nodded, looking down. “At least I thought I knew him. It was when I’d lost my memories.”

Regis covered his hand with his own, not caring that others could see. His eyes turned melancholy.

“I’m glad you recovered them,” he said in a small voice. Geralt’s heart tugged at it, and before he thought about it too hard, he leaned closer and kissed Regis. His fingers brushed against his cheek, and after a split-second of stillness the vampire kissed him back.

Geralt knew he was blushing when they parted, but no one around them seemed to be paying them much attention. Apart from the time when Ciri had walked in on them at Corvo Bianco, their displays of affection had almost always been private. Geralt realized this could very well be the only time when he was among people who wouldn’t judge them.

“I’m going to go see what Usamea has to say,” he said.

“Come back to the cabin afterwards,” Regis nodded, smiling. “I would like to see how your wounds are faring.” A brush of gentle want reached for Geralt, and he accepted it, smiling at Regis before leaving the mess.

 

Usamea opened her door and gestured Geralt to come in and sit down. She had removed the scarf, and the vines and flowers were clearly visible, contrasting her olive skin.

“So,  _ Gwynbleidd _ , decided to come dig up some old ghosts?” she asked as she locked the door and sat down on her bed.

The name sent a shiver down Geralt’s spine.

“Who are you? How do you know Iorveth?”

Usamea smiled, her eyes going cloudy with memories. “I was there when they took his eye,” she said quietly. “He was a wild one, a true spark of spring. Humans hated him, because he was everything they were not.”

Her eyes grew hard. “We were in the Vrihedd Brigade together. As you know, he was an officer. I was the sapper of his unit. I watched his back for years, until Nilfgaard betrayed us all.”

“But he escaped. He and Isengrim both did,” Geralt said, and Usamea nodded. Her smile turned cold.

“So they did. I joined Iorveth again when he formed the last Scoia’tael commando.”

“I don’t remember seeing you.”

At Geralt’s words, Usamea stood up and paced to the window. It was impossible to see through it, but she gazed at her reflection on the glass.

“I left him. When he decided to fight with Saskia,” she said in a flat tone. “I did not want to join forces with her. We clashed about it.” She turned back around and sighed. “It was several years until I heard from him again. I, too, thought he’d died after Loc Muinne.”

“He didn’t?” Geralt’s voice was tight.

“No,” Usamea whispered. “But he has been on the run ever since. He came to find me again when it came to choosing that or giving up.”

“Why didn’t he contact me? I would’ve helped,” Geralt asked. Something was starting to hurt inside his chest.

“You know Iorveth, but you do not understand him fully,” Usamea said. She glanced at the embroidered quilt on top of her bed. “He thinks of himself as a last relic of a bygone era. He is Aen Seidhe, but he is not kin to any elf that lives nowadays. Well, if you count out other relics like myself,” she amended with a slight smile.

Geralt frowned, and Usamea went on. “We’ve lost so much,  _ Gwynbleidd _ . At some point you give up the fight and try to carve out a place for yourself in this hostile world just to survive. What is there left to an elf who is hunted by the Empire, who is not welcome to Dol Blathanna?”

“Friends,” Geralt insisted. “He could’ve come to find me.”

“Could he?” Usamea asked. Her green eyes grew wary, for the first time since they have met. “Your daughter is the crown princess of Nilfgaard. You put your life and the fate of the world on the line to find her again, only to have her go back to Emhyr var Emreis.”

Geralt saw where she was going, and words deserted him as he understood. He leaned down and fought back a rush of nausea. Usamea regarded him closely, but let him breathe in peace.

He had chosen to go look for Ciri, chosen to work for Emhyr, and in the process, without knowing it, driven away a friend.

“You understand why he didn’t come find you,” Usamea said after a while. She cocked an eyebrow. “I don’t know if I can trust you. There is a price on my head as well, though not as hefty as on Iorveth’s.”

“So why did you reveal yourself to me?” Geralt asked, lifting his gaze. “I guessed you were Scoia’tael, but I’m not in the habit of bothering anyone who leaves me alone.”

Usamea shrugged, an elegant motion with feigned nonchalance. “Iorveth spoke highly of you. He couldn’t trust you, but he doesn’t seem to resent you. I decided to take a risk.”

Geralt waited, let the silence stretch, and finally Usamea sighed. Her smile, when it reappeared, was a bit sad. “I am old, Geralt. I have a home now, and I’ve made my peace with what I can. I want to pay back kindness and sometimes do good without benefit for myself. Is that hard to believe?”

“No,” Geralt said quietly. “It’s not.”

Usamea nodded. “I thought so. Besides, you and Regis placed your secret into our hands. You have as much to lose as I do, at this point.”

It was true. Geralt had known they were making themselves vulnerable by sailing on Arlene, but what other option did they have?

“Thank you for telling me,” he said as he got up. “I’m glad to know he’s alive.”

Usamea frowned. “You’re not going to ask where he is?”

Geralt’s mouth twisted, not quite reaching a smile. “I’d like to see him again. Apologize for some things, kick his ass for others. But he deserves his peace, if he’s found it.”

Usamea looked down on the quilt and fiddled with the edge. Geralt turned around, and just as he was about to open the door, the elf spoke again.

“He will come find you. His peace won’t be complete until he does.”

Geralt nodded without turning around, and closed the door.

***

When Geralt came back, he looked glum. He stripped off and laid down in silence, and only when Regis wrapped him into a hug did he relax a bit.

“What is it?” Regis asked. He stroked his mate’s hair as he tried to reach to him through the bond. What met him was a faint wisp of a memory; flash of a green eye, a red bandanna, and drawling laughter.

Geralt heaved a sigh and snuggled closer. “Something I kinda knew, but haven’t wanted to think about.”

“Was it about your friend?”

“Yes. He’s alive, but couldn’t trust me when he needed help.”

Geralt’s voice was quiet in a way that told Regis all he needed to know. The witcher was once again carrying too much for one person.

“Geralt.”

Regis’ voice prompted him to lift his gaze, albeit reluctantly.

“You can’t save everyone.”

Geralt’s breath hitched, and Regis gave up trying to reach him with words. He dragged the witcher into a kiss instead. Geralt pulled Regis on top of himself and held him tight; this, Regis could read like an open book. He started moving against his lover, and the gentle rocking of the ship made the world around them sway in rhythm.

Regis broke the kiss to lick a trail down Geralt’s neck and chest. He took his sweet time doing it, keeping his touch firm but gentle. Geralt let him do it, carding his fingers through Regis’ hair and closing his eyes whenever Regis found a particularly sensitive spot.

When Regis finally pulled Geralt's soft pants off, the witcher was panting softly and looking at him with a crooked smile. Regis met his gaze as he pressed the flat of his tongue to the head of Geralt’s cock, watching the amber eyes flutter closed. He licked down, enjoying the simplest ways of pleasuring his lover, and reached for the oil.

Geralt’s body accepted him easily, and Regis kept sucking him as he fucked him with his fingers. Geralt gripped the headboard and tried to keep quiet, but soft keens and whimpers were escaping him, and Regis took care to twist his fingers every now and then for extra effect.

He kept Geralt on the edge for a lot longer than usually, backing off whenever he started to grow stiffer against his lips, until finally the witcher broke.

“Regis, please, please,” Geralt gasped. His hair was spread out on a pillow and even in the cool air of the cabin, his skin was glistening with sweat. Regis met Geralt’s eyes and took note how absolutely gorgeous he looked like this; color high on his cheeks, biting his lip so hard it threatened to bleed, pupils almost perfect circles. He sucked harder, and Geralt’s back lifted off the bed in a beautiful arch as he came, trying to stifle a moan.

Regis slipped his fingers out and leaned in just as Geralt went slack. He was smiling, a giddy, loving expression Regis cherished more than anything. He waited for a second, and then Geralt dragged him closer and wrapped his legs around Regis’ waist. When the vampire pushed into him, he let out another choked-off moan.

Regis kept the thrusts languid, allowing his lover to regain his strength. He didn’t mind waiting, because fucking Geralt when he was pliant and happy was his favorite thing in the world. Regis held him close, breathing in the smell of them both, and when Geralt kissed him, he tasted the faintest whiff of blood on his lip. It spurred him to speed up his pace a touch, and he felt Geralt grow hard again. His lover’s stamina matched his own vampiric one, and taking advantage of the fact was exquisite.

“Got your wish,” Geralt whispered as he tried to catch his breath and Regis drove him higher to prevent that from happening.

“My wish?” Regis asked, sucking kisses under Geralt’s ear.

“About making love while on a ship,” the witcher chuckled, moaning as Regis’ cock hit him just right. The vampire laughed as he started to stroke Geralt again. He was so close, and looking down on his mate was stripping him of any and all notions of keeping his emotions from spilling free. He tried not to overtax Geralt with the bond, but at moments like this his heart was just so full; he let the control go, and Geralt’s eyes closed as the bond engulfed them both.

At that moment, Regis was absolutely certain he had been right; they belonged together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now do you see why this was titled "Still Not In Skellige" for quite a while?
> 
> As usual, comments and kudos are extremely welcome. <3
> 
> I'm on Tumblr and Twitter, come say hi! @merulanoir


	3. Clouds Drawing Closer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one real clunker of a chapter. But we're finally in Skellige!
> 
> Beta by [Tsurai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsurai/pseuds/tsurai). <3

Dettlaff watched the ship come in. It was a clear day, and the sun kept catching on the waves in blinding flashes. A cold wind was rushing through the harbor, and high up the cliffs seabirds were calling out. The harbor was a surprisingly busy place; Dettlaff had thought Skellige rural and quiet, but the docks were full of merchants, fishermen, and children. 

He tried not to pace as he waited. Something had happened two days ago. Blind terror had ripped through his bond with Regis, making Dettlaff drop the block of wood he had been carving. He had gripped the edge of the table, gasping for air as the bond went crazy inside his brain, and had been on the verge of flying out when it abruptly calmed again. 

Dettlaff had been shaking, breaking out in a cold sweat. There wasn't much more after that, he was too far away from his pack, but a restlessness had driven him out of his home a bit earlier than he had planned. 

Something had happened to Geralt, Dettlaff was almost sure of that. Nothing else would be able to shake Regis so badly. Dettlaff had felt his fear when they had thought they would be buried alive in the cavern on Temple Isle, but it had been over in seconds; this terror had gripped the bond for several minutes. 

As the ship drew closer, Dettlaff lifted the collar of his coat higher to block the wind. He had left the black leather overcoat back home, and opted for something less… conspicuous. People were casting curious glances at him, but almost no one looked twice. He ignored them and watched the women rushing around the deck, and then his eyes caught a flash of white hair. 

Geralt leaned over the banister and gave a small wave as their eyes met. Relief washed over Dettlaff at the sight. He could feel Regis, too, and knowing his pack was safe eased the cold grip around his heart. 

The knowledge that seeing the witcher was causing him to feel safe and good confused Dettlaff. Geralt was a human, if not a normal one. He had killed many vampires during his years on the Path, so by all accounts he should have made Dettlaff feel angry and threatened. That feeling had vanished somewhere along the line, but its absence still made Dettlaff feel off whenever they met each other after a time apart. He was used to knowing where he stood with people, and Geralt wasn't fitting into any of the categories he had. 

When the gangplank was finally lowered, Regis and Geralt walked off the ship. Dettlaff went to them, and couldn't help his relief surging out along the bond. Regis’ face broke into a smile as he drew Dettlaff closer, and for a few seconds his mind seemed to engulf Dettlaff's, making his world feel a little more stable. 

“What happened?” Dettlaff asked when they parted. He felt agitated again; he had to know they were fine. 

Many things happened in quick succession. Dettlaff felt the distress scrabble at the back of his throat, and Geralt's eyes snapped to him. Before Dettlaff could pull himself together, Geralt's hand landed on his shoulder. A wave of calm washed over Dettlaff at the contact, helping him bring his heart rate under control. 

“I fell overboard,” Geralt said quietly. “A siren got me. I'm fine.” 

Regus was watching them both. Dettlaff stepped back and coughed, meeting the witcher's eyes. 

“That's… that's good,” he got out. Embarrassment tried to strangle his voice, but he crushed it. Something calming brushed him through his bond with Regis. Dettlaff glanced around, but no one was paying them attention. 

“Should we go?” Geralt asked after an awkward silence. Regis nodded, turning to Dettlaff.

“Would you like to accompany us? We’re expected at Kaer Trolde.”

Dettlaff shook his head. “I don’t think it’s wise.”

“Why?” Geralt asked, looking genuinely baffled. “I know Cerys an Craite, and in her letter she said any friends I might bring with me were equally welcome.”

_ Friends. _

Dettlaff shook his head again, more to clear it than anything else.

“I think I will take a look around.”

“Your feeling, is it stronger here?” Regis asked in a low voice.

“Yes, but something is obscuring it.” Dettlaff looked towards the village he could see beyond the harbor. “I would like to get a feel of the place. It’s been nearly two centuries since I last visited Ard Skellig.”

“Whatever you say,” the witcher shrugged. They were interrupted by a tall woman in a wide-brimmed hat approaching them. Her gait was confident and she was looking at Geralt and Regis good-naturedly.

“Very well, gentlemen,” she said and clapped a hand on Regis’ shoulder. “Ard Skellig. All in one piece, even if it did look glum for a while there.” Her voice was husky and warm.

“We thank you, captain,” Regis said with a nod. Dettlaff sensed amusement and wariness from him.

“Yeah, thanks,” Geralt echoed. “Here’s hoping you finish your own business in Skellige.”

The captain grinned, and a golden tooth flashed in the pale sunlight.

“Aye, and you two keep out of trouble. Your friend is looking worried already.”

Dettlaff met her dark eyes with a hint of defensiveness. Something about the woman rubbed him the wrong way.

Regis saved him from answering by chuckling.

“He is merely of a severe type, Marja. That is his relaxed face.”

Dettlaff realized Regis was making a joke at his expense, but instead of offending him, it rekindled a feeling of home in his heart. Ever since Regis had regained enough of his senses and vocal chords, he had been a tireless verbal sparrer. It had taken Dettlaff some time before he had realized it was a sign Regis felt safe with him. The knowledge that Regis trusted him enough to throw an occasional jab in his direction was just another way of growing closer.

The captain, whose name was apparently Marja, grinned wider at Dettlaff.

“In that case, I will leave you gentlemen in his capable hands. Farewell, Geralt, Regis.” She tilted her hat and swirled around, immediately focused on her ship. A woman with red hair leaned over the banister of the deck and waved at Geralt.

“Oi, witcher! Take care!”

Geralt smiled widely as he waved back, and once again Dettlaff caught a glimpse of his teeth. Something was definitely odd there. He dismissed the thought once again when the witcher turned to face him. Geralt looked relaxed in a different manner than back in Novigrad, despite the hazards he had faced on the trip.

“We’ll head up the hill,” he said, gesturing towards the high rise of the cliffs. Dettlaff looked up and saw the massive bridge crossing a deep chasm. It led to a stronghold that had been carved straight into the mountain.

“I will stay here. I’ll wait for you.”

Geralt nodded, and then he looked at Regis. “Up for a little climb?”

Regis snorted. “I’d wager you will get winded before I do.”

“We’ll see about that.”

Dettlaff bit back a smile at the banter. Despite all his apprehension about Regis forming a bond with a human, it was plain to see Geralt was the best possible option for his brother; the witcher wasn’t afraid of Regis, had offered his blood without a trace of fear, and treated him well. It could have been much worse.

They bid a quick farewell, and Dettlaff watched as Geralt led Regis towards the road that squirmed between smaller hills and towards the fortress, all the while talking in his customary drawling manner. Dettlaff was moderately curious about the reigning monarch, because the last time he had visited, the islands had been on the brink of a civil war; a woman ruling over the bickering jarls would surely change things. Geralt speaking in her favor only affirmed it.

Regis was looking happy as he turned around one last time to wave at Dettlaff. What’s more, he was looking healthier. Dettlaff remembered his graying hair and tired eyes, but when he had met his brother again in Novigrad a little over a week ago, the difference had been noticeable. Regis was holding himself in a calm way that suggested t he was unconsciously feeling more at home in his body. His hair was growing in darker again, and some of the worried lines on his face were slowly smoothing out. Nothing drastic, but enough for Dettlaff to see he was doing well.

A twinge in his gut reminded Dettlaff of a time when he had believed he’d had that, too. It had all been a lie, because Rhena had never even existed, but the rush of happiness was still an aching wound in him. It kept bleeding, even after he’d watched the flicker of life fade from Rhena’s eyes.

No. Syanna’s, he corrected himself again. Rhena had been a daydream, a mirage in the dark. Sylvia Anna had hidden behind that mask.

Dettlaff forced the feelings down as he started towards the village. He breathed slowly as he walked, focusing on the sights. Fishermen patching up their nets, children running between boats and merchants, an odd guard or a shieldmaiden dressed in the clan an Craite colors. Dettlaff counted eight in the harbor, concluding that the time of relative peace was treating the islands well. The people seemed content and healthy, much more so than on the continent. Their home was harsh, but it had a ruler that seemed to care about her realm.

As he walked, he noted with satisfaction that his choice of attire had been a sensible one. He didn’t draw nearly as many gazes in the soft, green overcoat, although he still looked different from the locals. Dettlaff had discussed the question of human forms with Regis during his brother’s regeneration, but those conversations still hadn’t yielded the answer to why he looked the way he did. The most he had ever disappeared into the crowds had been in Nilfgaard proper, where black hair and pale skin was usual, but everywhere else he was always stared at.

Dettlaff sighed and tried to focus on the tugging feeling in his gut. Something had pulled him to Skellige, and now he would need to find out just what it was. The sensation wasn’t unpleasant, but it was different from any he had ever experienced. It came and went, much like the tide. It was stronger here, but there was a reluctance to it,

The village of Kaer Trolde was bustling. Dettlaff took in the local architecture and decided quickly he liked the longhouses and their steep roofs; they made everything look approachable, despite the village being almost big enough to be called a town. Merchants called out their wares in their curious accent, and only when Dettlaff rounded a corner and came to a square with a rough-hewn statue did he realize his mind had gone calm.

He had just enough time to take in the monument of a broad, fierce man, when something lurched inside his chest. A breath got caught in his throat as he looked around, and then he saw her.

A woman was standing by a booth. She wore a rust-colored cloak with an onyx brooch, and as their eyes met time seemed to slow down. Dettlaff saw her eyes widen, and his vampiric sense felt something flare up; it was like breathing in too cold air.

The moment was gone as soon as it registered. The woman turned her head, exchanged a few curt words with the merchant, and then fled the square. Her dark brown hair caught the sunlight as she rounded a corner.

Dettlaff closed his eyes and drew in a breath. He stood very still for a moment, and then turned heel. His gut told him he’d need to be quick if he wanted to catch the woman. Every second narrowed down to smaller instances, until he was looking at the world in a prism of moments; a flash of a smile, the salty smell of the ever-present sea, sun catching the scales of a fish on a stall, a gravelly voice, and then a deserted alley.

The woman slammed him against the wall with enough force to crack the wood. Breath escaped Dettlaff’s lungs in a long whiff, and the world came back with an unpleasant jolt of colour and smell. There was a reason he didn’t go so deep into his senses unless he absolutely had to.

The woman retained her human guise, but her grip on his throat didn’t leave anything to guess; Dettlaff was trapped. He wouldn’t get out without a considerable effort. The feeling inside his chest eased as he looked into the light brown eyes, and he ceased his struggle.

“Stop following me,” the woman hissed. Her mouth stretched into a snarl, and the flash of sharp teeth told Dettlaff everything he needed to know.

One of his kind.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” he gasped. He would manage a lot longer without oxygen than a human, but it wasn’t pleasant.

“Oh, really?” The grip didn’t ease off one bit. “Is that why you have been plaguing my dreams for the past months?”

Her eyes flared silver, and Dettlaff took in the deep shadows under them.

“I—What?” he got out. “Your dreams?”

Suddenly the grip loosened and she stepped back. Her steps took her as far as the narrow alley would allow. When her back met the wall she stopped, watching him with her pale eyes. Everything about her radiated hostility.

“Aye,  _ my  _ dreams,” she spat out. “Why are you here?”

_ She speaks like the islanders,  _ Dettlaff thought as he straightened up and rubbed his throat. The minor damage to his larynx was healing already.

“I needed to come here,” he said. “You were calling for me.”

“No,” she told him. Her voice was flat and angry. “I was not.” She forced her shoulders down, and as she did, her eyes returned to the human form. “You must leave now. We will never meet again.”

She turned away; a rush of dread engulfed Dettlaff’s head and without any conscious thought he reached for her.

A swirl of claws met him; it happened too fast for him to comprehend, and for a higher vampire that was saying something. When his senses caught up, Dettlaff was cradling his hand, and blood was dripping on to the hard-packed ground of the alley.

The woman stood her ground. Her claws shrunk back, but her face remained in its true form for a second longer. She let out a warning growl before the change washed over her, bringing back the high cheekbones and thin lips, accompanied by the livid eyes.

“You will not touch me. Go away.”

The words were dripping with anger, but underneath them was something else. Dettlaff didn’t have the time to decipher the nuance before she turned away and fled the alley. Her cloak billowed as she stepped around the corner, and then the feeling was gone; he had lost her trail. Dettlaff backed away until his own shoulders thudded against the wall and he let it support his weight. He drew in a breath as the wounds slowly closed and blood stopped flowing. His mind was muddled and alarmed.

The woman’s face had resembled Regis’ true visage.

***

Regis tried to take everything in as they made their way up the steep hills and towards the bridges that led to the fortress. He hadn’t visited Ark Skellig in even longer a time than Dettlaff, and in the pale winter sunlight the archipelago was stunning. Snow blanketed the rises and drops, only the road marring the pristine whiteness. Smaller trees poked through the crust of snow, whereas most of the tall pine trees carried heavy loads on their branches. Regis could hear tiny creatures flitting beneath the snow as they walked.

Geralt was smiling absently, looking calm and happy. He had donned his armor again, and the only thing out of the ordinary was the empty scabbard hanging from his back. Regis hadn’t dared to mention the missing blade, but he knew his lover felt its absence keenly; when Geralt had attached the sword belts this morning, a stab of guilt had come and gone. Regis didn’t know the exact story behind Aerondight, but he knew Geralt had received the sword from the Lady of the Lake. The sword had been returned to the witcher after a long time apart, and some part of Regis hoped it might happen again.

“You like it here,” Regis observed when the first bridge came into view. It crossed a deep canyon, and at the bottom he could see a rapid, white foam and ice crystals making the air glitter and sparkle as wind lifted them high in the air.

“Yeah,” Geralt nodded. He lifted his hand in greeting to the guards standing side by side at the end of the bridge. One of them, a lean man with dirty blonde hair tied back and a beard crusted with freezing respiration, suddenly let out a delighted boom of laughter.

“Look what the tide dragged up! Geralt!” He crossed the distance with easy steps, heedless of the icy path, and embraced the witcher.

Geralt was grinning when they parted. “Folan,” he laughed. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, let me think,” Folan said, feigning pensiveness. “Ah, must be my duty, the last they said?”

“Since when has clan Tuirseach frequented Ard Skellig?” Geralt asked, rolling his eyes. His smile never fell. Regis sensed fondness and good humor from him, and concluded Folan was an old friend.

The witcher turned to Regis. “Folan, meet Regis, a close friend of mine. Regis, this is Folan an Tuirseach, from An Skellig. I found him in the cauldron of three rock trolls in Undvik.”

Regis lifted an eyebrow and glanced at Folan, who nodded solemnly before bursting into laughter.

“That explanation really doesn’t illuminate your shared history all that much,” Regis remarked as he shook hands with Folan. The islander’s fingers held the kind of calluses that told Regis he was most likely an archer, despite him carrying only a simple shortsword with a shield strapped to his back.

Folan grinned, gesturing towards the fortress. “I accompanied Hjalmar an Craite to Undvik to slay the ice giant,” he explained. “Took a scenic route, if I may put it that way, and Geralt here plucked me out of a pot.”

Geralt chuckled. “Folan came to Kaer Morhen with Hjalmar, to help us battle the Wild Hunt.”

“Ah.” Regis could see the history spread out between the two. They weren’t close in a traditional sense of the word, but mutual gratitude and respect was palpable.

“But my question stands,” Geralt said as he turned to his friend. “What are you doing in Kaer Trolde?”

Folan’s face sobered. He glanced up at the fortress again before fixing his sharp blue eyes on Geralt.

“I think it’s not a coincidence you’re here, witcher. Trouble’s afoot.”

“Cerys summoned me,” Geralt nodded. “She said she has work for a witcher.”

“Aye, that explains a lot,” Folan sighed. “The jarls are converging as we speak. I’m here as a guard of my jarl, which means I get to stand around and miss out on the important things.”

“So it’s something big?” Geralt asked, and Folan nodded as his expression darkened.

“Something ill’s a-comin’,” he said in a low voice. “Cerys will tell you more, but just know: a lot of people won’t be happy to see you here again.”

They bid their farewells and Geralt and Regis continued walking. The wooden bridge sheltered them from the worst of the drifting ice lifted off from the rapid, but Regis felt it sticking to his hair as they reached the other end. Some clouds were coming in from the west, looking like they might bring more snow with them.

“What do you think is happening?” Regis asked Geralt when they were swallowed by a tunnel hewn into the mountainside. The air inside was cold and moist, and the ground was slippery despite crushed gravel that had been spread over it. Torches lit the way even during daytime, their smoke licking the walls.

Geralt shook his head. “No idea. You saw the letter Cerys sent me, but if the thing is bad enough to drag the jarls into Kaer Trolde, then I don’t like it one bit.”

“What are the jarls like?” Regis asked. He knew how the islands were governed, but that knowledge was theoretical. Geralt had apparently met the rulers of the clans personally.

True to form, the witcher scowled furiously as he adjusted the sword belt; it was slipping because the lack of a blade made the weight distribution uneven.

“Well, you know they have seven clans in the six islands, all in all. Here in Ard Skellig, the an Craites and Drummonds hold the power, each claiming they’re more influential than the other. I figure Hjalmar, Cerys’ older brother, must be the leader of their clan now that Cerys is the queen of Skellige.”

Geralt fell silent and bit his lip, wincing as the sharp teeth dug a touch too deep. A mix of resentment and something conflicted flared up.

“I… I killed the jarl of clan Drummond,” Geralt said very quietly as they passed a merchant trying to steer a cart down the slippery passage. “When we were getting ready to battle the Hunt. Ermion, the hierophant of the Skellige druids, had gone to Kaer Muire to talk sense into him, but he attacked us.”

“Was the jarl a good man?” Regis asked, and got his answer when the bond rippled with something bitter.

“No.” Geralt’s voice was dull. “They called him Madman Lugos. Everyone was afraid of him, his own son included.”

“Is his son the jarl now, then?”

Geralt’s face darkened and he was silent for a moment.

“No. Blueboy Lugos died during the Kaer Trolde massacre.”

“So we don’t know who rules over clan Drummond now,” Regis concluded in an attempt to steer the conversation away from the sad topic. He’d heard of the events when Skellige had been preparing to crown a new ruler.

“No,” Geralt sighed. “But I’m betting my swords that the new jarl is among the group of people who don’t like me. Well, one sword.”

“Alright, what about the rest of them?” Regis prompted.

“Jarl Udalryk from Spikeroog is a decent guy,” Geralt shrugged. “He’s doing much better nowadays, but he used to be haunted by a hym.”

Regis’ eyes widened, and Geralt glanced at him with a slight smile. “I helped Cerys exorcise the demon. Tell you the story later.”

Regis nodded, a bit stunned. He hadn’t known how well and truly his mate had been mixed up in the islanders’ plots and adventures.

Geralt pursed his lips as he thought. “Clan Tordarroch must’ve appointed a new jarl by now. Undvik’s been habitable for over a year. I have no idea who succeeded the old jarl, seeing as he went crazy when the ice giant attacked the island.

“Then there’s clan Dimun from Faroe, one of the smaller islands. Holger Blackhand rules there. He’s… a real pirate, if I ever saw one.”

Regis’ lips curled up. “I might categorize Marja Darling as one, too.”

Geralt huffed a laugh. “Holger’s just a lot more impolite and aggressive. He doesn’t have anything against me, as far as I know, but we’ll see.

“Clan Heymaey, or clan an Hindar as they’re more commonly known, comes from Hindarsfjall. Donar an Hindar is the eldest of the jarls, a decent fellow by all accounts. Yen and I destroyed the sacred garden of Freya when we were looking for Ciri, but she took the blame for that.”

Suddenly Geralt’s face fell. “I never made up for that. Yen can’t come to Skellige anymore.”

Regis caught Geralt’s hand and stopped, bringing the witcher face to face with himself. The amber eyes were pained as their gazes met.

“You will have time to apologize later,” Regis said. “As far as I’m aware, Lady Yennefer doesn’t hold any sort of a grudge towards you.”

Geralt let the breath he had been holding go and sagged a bit, still looking sad. “Doesn’t mean I don’t feel like shit about all the stuff she had to go through.”

“I know, love,” Regis whispered.

When they continued walking, Regis sensed Geralt taking the troubling thoughts and shoving them away for the time being. The vampire made a mental note to talk about it later.

“Then there’s clan Tuirseach,” Geralt said as the end of the tunnel finally came into view, the sunlight blazing through like a white and yellow beam. “The one Folan is from. The former king Bran was from that clan, so I don’t know who their jarl is now.”

Regis rubbed his hands together as they walked, doing a mental summary. Yet more guards met them on the stone bridge, all but two of them clad in red and black. The an Craite guards greeted Geralt with enthusiasm, but the two standing to the side cast wary and hostile glances at both of them.

“Drummond,” Geralt muttered as the portcullis was opened for them. Regis nodded minutely, keeping his eyes fixed on the way ahead. However, he couldn’t help hearing the derisive snort the female guard made, or the anxious whisper uttered by the male.

_ “It’s the witcher, innit? The one who stuck his sword through Madman Lugos?” _

_ “Shut your trap, ye idiot. He’ll be dealt with.” _

Regis bristled, but when Geralt glanced at him, he forced a smile and shook his head. Now was not the time to raise suspicions.

“Master Geralt!” A low voice greeted the witcher, and Regis forced his mind to abandon the worry. He saw a tall, stocky man with wild auburn hair stride towards them through the inner courtyard. After the blinding sun on the bridge, the stone walls made the yard dim and quiet. Geralt regarded the man with curiosity.

“My name is Oddleifr. I’m the seneschal of Kaer Trolde,” he said.

Geralt nodded, understanding dawning on his face. “Cerys choose you?”

Oddleifr seemed pleased by the question. “Aye. Been mates since we were little.”

“Glad to see Cerys has someone she can trust in that position,” Geralt said with a tight smile. Oddleifr drew himself up and nodded.

“After Arnvald was put to death, there was much talk about abolishing the position of a seneschal. Cerys wouldn’t hear it, and in the end my humble person was picked for the task.”

The man crossed his arms as he cast a glance around the courtyard. “Truth be told, witcher, you’re here in the nick of time. Cerys needs help.”

“Take me to her,” Geralt said. Regis could feel him gearing up, fortifying himself in the face of a new task. Underneath was something darker, but it slipped away before the vampire could understand what it was.

“Can’t do that now,” Oddleifr said with a displeased twist in his mouth. “The jarls are busy shouting themselves hoarse. I’m supposed to get you settled and fed. The queen will meet you after she’s dealt with the jarls.”

“But if she needs my help—” Geralt begun, and Oddleifr cut him off by stepping closer. He was an imposing man, and had at least five inches on the witcher. Regis stiffened, but forced himself to stand his ground. The two stared at each other for a tense second.

“You’re from the Continent, witcher,” Oddleifr said slowly. “And Crach an Craite is dead. You are an outsider, and you will abide by our customs.”

There wasn’t a threat veiled in the words, but something told Regis that Oddleifr’s joviality wasn’t the only thing about the man; at this point, the sole thing he could tell for sure was that the man was loyal to Cerys an Craite, and no one else.

“Fine.” Geralt’s voice turned cold. “We’ll wait.”

“Hold on,” Oddleifr said, his voice mellowing out once more. “Who’s the other fellow?”

“A friend,” Geralt grunted. Regis stepped forward and offered a polite smile.

“My name is Emiel Regis. I’m a physician.”

“A surgeon, eh?” Oddleifr said, scratching a scar that stretched from his forehead down his nose. “We have another ‘un visiting the keep. From Nilfgaard.”

He shrugged and gestured towards the big doors. All hostility was gone from him. It was curious, Regis thought. “Come. I’ll take you to the hall. You can wait there.”

Geralt and Regis trailed after the man. Regis could tell Geralt was getting more and more unhappy about the situation, but what was there to be done? They couldn’t barge into the meeting with the jarls.

Oddleifr left them near a huge hearth with a few words and a smile. Regis shrugged down his bags and sat down, enjoying the heat of the fire, but when he looked at his mate, Geralt was still standing and scowling. He looked around for a while, and then his eyes hardened.

“I’m not sure I like the guy,” Geralt muttered. Regis glanced back at the seneschal, who was talking with some druids, eyes once more wrinkled with a smile. “Never seen him before.”

“Is he an Craite?” Regis asked, making Geralt frown.

“Come to think of it, he’s not wearing the clan colors,” he said. “I’ll have to ask Cerys what’s the deal with him.” He fell silent, taking in the hall with an air of familiarity. Regis watched Geralt closely, and the fondness in him was impossible to miss.

“I’m gonna go and try to get to see Cerys,” the witcher said quietly, so as not to alarm the few guards eating and drinking a few tables away.

Regis felt something cold brush him.  _ Bad idea,  _ his instinct yelled at him out of nowhere.

“Shouldn’t we just wait?” he asked. Some of his hesitation must have bled into his tone, because Geralt’s eyes turned worried.

“Everything okay?” he asked, sitting down next to Regis.

Regis opened his mouth to say yes, and to dissuade his partner from acting rashly, when he stalled. Something was weird. The air, the aether itself around him, it all has a subtle difference he hadn’t properly noticed before.

In Toussaint, Regis was always aware of the Beauclair elder’s power. It didn’t disrupt him in any way, but the claim to him, among all the other vampires, was always present. In Novigrad, he had sensed the moment he had entered another elder’s domain; there had been a warning ripple in the aether, as the unknown elder reached for his essence and made themselves known. 

That feeling was absent in Skellige. The influence of the Novigrad elder had waned gradually during their voyage, and nothing had come to take its place. 

Regis let his other senses dull for a moment as he reached for the aether, spreading his consciousness across the vibrating planes of the unseen world, but he came up with nothing. There was no one here.

“Skellige lacks an elder,” he whispered to Geralt.

The witcher seemed taken aback. He cast a furtive look around them, but the group of guards had started singing, and their raucous voices guaranteed them some privacy.

“What do you mean, no elder?”

Regis exhaled, pulling his focus back onto the real world. Now that he was aware of the fact, he was feeling untethered.

“You know each vampire must respond to the call of the unseen elders,” he explained. “We always feel the claim the elders have on us, wherever we go. But not here.”

“Feel the claim?”

“It has a lot to do with territories and tribes,” Regis murmured. He felt vaguely guilty about divulging such deep vampiric secrets to a human, but he decided it needed to be done. “The elders used to be the leader figures of the tribes, before Ammurun and Tdet ventured west and east, respectively. After that, the remaining Gharasham elders settled all over the continent. Each of them governs their own territory, and wherever one of us goes, we answer to the elder of that area.”

“And you’re saying that Skellige has no elder at all?” Geralt repeated. He looked confused.

“Yes. That, or they’re hiding their presence, which shouldn’t be possible.” Regis sighed. “It feels disconcerting.” 

“Does it affect you in any way?” Geralt asked.

“No,” Regis shook his head. “It’s just odd, as I said. And makes me worried, because I thought every single place has an elder.”

“We can try to find out more about that later,” Geralt promised. A brush of comfort through their bond made Regis relax.

“We’ll see. I’m not certain I want to reach out to other higher vampires living in this area,” Regis said with a slight smile.

Geralt smiled, amusement and concern mixing on his face. “It could also be just the keep messing with you. There’s an unusual place of power underneath it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I found it when Cerys and I were trying to solve the massacre. It’s somehow a bit different from others I’ve seen, a bit more unstable.”

Regis rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “To be honest, I haven’t sought out many of these runestones. Their magic isn’t accessible to me, at least not without considerable effort.”

“Well, it was just a suggestion,” Geralt said with a shrug before his mind focused on the matter at hand again. Regis swallowed.

“Geralt, please don’t go disturb the jarls. It feels unwise to anger them right away.”

Geralt opened his mouth to protest, and Regis felt a defensive wall come up, but right then a door was slammed open and a group of people in the middle of a loud argument marched through.

“This will not stand! We won’t wait ‘til help comes, we will solve this ourselves!”

Regis saw a tall, red-haired woman wearing an iron crown cross her arms as she looked at an unkempt, black-haired man shouting at her.

“And what do you suggest, Holger?” she spat. “That we each send a group of warriors in search of the cause of our troubles?”

“Dragging outsiders from the Continent to solve Skellige’s troubles is beneath us,” a short, stocky man with a clean-shaven face and a missing ear pointed out. His tone was quiet but menacing.

“I am not dragging outsiders into Skellige’s issues,” the woman, who Regis surmised must be Cerys an Craite, snarled. “I am looking for a way to solve the matter.”

Another man stepped up. He lacked an eye, and the remaining one seemed restless. When he spoke, however, his voice was strong.

“I support Queen Cerys,” he said, addressing the short man. “I know this issue is causing us troubles, but I advise caution.”

“So do I,” the oldest of the jarls said. “We cannot rush into this—”

“We can, and we will,” a tall, muscular woman ground out. She had been standing behind the man called Holger, but now everyone’s eyes turned to her. “Clan Drummond will not stand by idly while the queen lets her people suffer.” Her hair was dark, and her brown eyes were full of loathing as she looked at Cerys an Craite.

“Why is she here?” another man with a huge brown and grey beard asked. He was standing beside Cerys and cast a contemptuous look at the dark woman.

“Because I am the jarl of clan Drummond,” she threw back at him. “I am the only legitimate heir of Madman Lugos!”

“That she is,” the oldest jarl said in a tired voice, cutting off the angry murmurs coming from the others. “Sága an Drummond holds the claim to the seat of the jarl.”

“And I bested my challengers in armed combat,” jarl Sága said, her dark voice ringing across the hall. “Anyone feels like taking up the issue, my axe is more than ready to drink more blood.”

“Let’s not spill any more blood,” Cerys said, sounding weary. She turned around, and Regis saw relief flash across her face when her eyes found Geralt.

“And it seems the help I mentioned has arrived.” She waved Geralt closer, and Regis stood back, eager to observe the situation further away. Geralt held himself tall, and even with one sword missing he looked every bit like a solution to any and all problems a reigning monarch might have.

“My good jarls, this is Geralt of Rivia,” Cerys said. “I’ve summoned him, because who else is better at breaking curses than a master witcher?”

“This one works for the black ones,” the short man with a missing ear said. His voice was sharp and his face was twisted up in apparent disgust.

Geralt’s gaze pinned the man in place. “I don’t,” he said, sounding equal parts angry and offended.

“Oh aye?” said Sága an Drummond, laughing. “So it just so happened you were there when the black-sailed ships came to Undvik?”

“I don’t work for Emhyr,” Geralt repeated. “I’m a witcher.”

Before the female jarl could come up with anything, Cerys spoke up.

“This issue is closed. Anyone feel like taking it up again can invent a better argument than something that will only lead to a childish spat.” She ignored the bristling jarls and turned back to Geralt.

“Thank you for coming. I will tell you more about the problem we are having, but I think I need to introduce some of my esteemed jarls before that.”

She gestured towards the man with an eyepatch and the oldest jarl. “Udalryk and Donar you know, and I trust you remember Holger Blackhand as well?”

Geralt shook hands with the three, the first two offering him genuine smiles and the untidy pirate jarl wrinkling his nose. Geralt kept his face smooth and polite, but Regis sensed his shifting emotions through the bond. The witcher respected Donar, that much was clear. The man called Udalryk brought forth a brush of sympathy and joy, whereas Holger Blackhand made him a touch apprehensive.

Cerys turned to the man with the magnificent beard. Regis saw that one of his eyes was green and the other one blue.

“This strapping fellow is Dalmar an Tuirseach from An Skellig. He rose to the seat of the jarl after Birna Bran was executed and Svanrige exiled. He is the nephew of old king Bran.”

Dalmar an Tuirseach’s face was open, but he held himself in a way that suggested a long history of confrontations.

“Huginn an Tordarroch is the jarl of Undvik,” Cerys continued. “After his father was found dead, he succeeded him to the seat.”

Huginn was the man with the missing ear and strong back. He carried a heavy warhammer on his back, and his look was full of suspicion as he shook hands with Geralt.

“Sága, as you heard, is now the head of clan Drummond,” Cerys finished. Sága met Geralt’s eyes without a trace of fear or geniality. Regis sensed curiosity mixing with distrust as they shook hands.

“And Hjalmar is in charge of the an Craites,” Cerys added and nodded to the burly man with red hair standing next to Dalmar. Regis realized Hjalmar and Cerys looked very much alike.

“Good to see you, friend,” Hjalmar an Craite said. He and Geralt embraced each other shortly, drawing dark looks from the hostile jarls. Cerys faced them all with her hands on her hips.

“I will keep you updated. I trust we handled everything.”

“Not even closely,” Sága an Drummond snorted. She whirled around and left the room, the rest of the jarls trailing after her.

“Forgive me, Geralt,” Cerys sighed once only she, Hjalmar, and Geralt remained. “Things have gone from bad to worse, and the jarls are getting impatient and worried. If they’re not allowed to kill something, they start getting mutinous.”

“So it seems,” Geralt said with a smile. “You seem to have them handled, though.”

“Oh, sure,” Cerys snorted. “Come, we will talk in my rooms.”

Geralt turned towards Regis, and Cerys’s gaze landed on him.

“Cerys, this is Emiel Regis. He decided to accompany me here.”

Cerys’ hand was sword-calloused and her grip strong. She looked Regis over, and he saw her assess him with a keen eye.

“Pleasure to meet you, Master Regis,” she said. “I apologize for my jarls’ behaviour, I can assure you most of our people are much less tiresome to deal with.”

“Your Majesty, no need to feel bad,” Regis chuckled. “Hard times bring out the good and the bad in people.”

“No need to call me ‘Your Majesty,’ master,” Cerys said with a frown and a smile. “Just Cerys will be fine. We do thing differently in Skellige.”

“I cannot promise I will do that, my lady,” Regis amended. “One does not learn many new tricks after a certain age.”

He felt Geralt bite back laughter, but when Cerys turned to him, the witcher was once again looking serious.

“Come, I’ll ask the servants to bring us something to eat and drink. I will explain everything.”

Regis trailed after the queen and the witcher, looking around as he walked. He felt for the aether one more time, and then shook himself free of his hesitation.

***

Geralt closed the door and leaned against it. Everything was weighing him down, and he was fiercely glad the seneschal had showed him to a private room to pull himself together. Even his armor, the good one Lafargue had made according to all his specifications, felt impossibly heavy.

A curse, strong enough to affect the entirety of Skellige.

Cerys had looked tired, up close. She’d held her back straight and smiled like always, but underneath it all she was exhausted. They had sat down in the room Geralt always associated with Crach an Craite, and Cerys had told them the story.

It had started about two moons ago. Nightmares had started gripping villages one by one. They came and went, but when they came, they didn’t spare anyone. They dug deep into old wounds, ripping them open and bleeding into daytime as people were reminded of past hurts and fears.

“The druids have found out nothing,” Cerys had said, rubbing her eyes. “Ermion has been doing everything in his power, but thus far he can only say it might be a curse. A powerful one, and old.”

Geralt had felt something cold at the pit of his stomach, but forced it down.

“Why not call mages?”

“We have.” Cerys’ blue eyes had sparkled with irritation. “But as they operate under Nilfgaard’s jurisdiction, their work is not very efficient. Not to mention the druids are refusing to cooperate with them.”

“Great.”

Regis had been observing them in silence. His mind had been quiet, the bond almost still as the vampire turned the news around inside his head.

“Do you have any leads, my lady?” Regis had finally asked. “Anything at all?”

Cerys had sighed. “There have been disturbances in several villages here in Ard Skellig. Folk claim they have seen ghostly people come and go.”

“Spectres? What’d they do?`” Geralt had asked, hoping for a solid lead.

“Nothing, really. Just scared people, wailed a bit, and then vanished into thin air. People claim they sort of… flicker.”

 

Geralt rubbed his eyes and then stepped into the rooms he had been given. His bag thudded on the floor, the sound muffled by a heavy rug. He looked around, and concluded things could’ve been a lot worse. The room had a big, soft bed, narrow windows opening towards east, and a hearth, in which a cheerful fire was crackling.

A twinge of regret made Geralt sigh. Regis had been roomed a few doors down from him, because there wasn’t any other realistic option. Geralt had gotten so used to sleeping together and not having to hide, that the return to reality was harsher than he’d expected.

He kept waiting for cool hands reaching for him as he stripped off his armor, feeling stupid by the time servants carried in the tub and hot water.

“Master witcher, we will serve dinner in the great hall in two hours,” the braver of them, a boy who looked no older than fifteen told him.

“Thanks,” Geralt smiled at him, and once the door closed he heard the boy launch into an enthusiastic explanation about everything he thought he knew about witchers. The older girl who had accompanied him asked something about witchers stealing children, and then their voices faded away.

Geralt smiled to himself as he pulled off his shirt and the leather-reinforced pants. Despite the churning apprehension about the curse, he liked being in Skellige. Folk didn’t fear witchers in the islands, so they mostly didn’t spit at him when he rode past. He would have much easier time gathering clues here than on the Continent.

The tub was on the smaller side, but the water was hot. Geralt slipped in and let out a sigh. They wouldn’t be staying at Kaer Trolde for long, at any case. He could stand to sleep on his own for a few nights for appearances sake. It slowly dawned on him that this must be what Regis had meant when he had explained the bond in the summer and mentioned a need for close contact; Geralt couldn’t remember feeling this…clingy ever before in his life.

Thus far he had managed to ignore the feeling, because he and Regis had spent almost all their time together, with the knowledge that at the end of the day they could fall asleep holding one another. And now even a few days apart was making Geralt feel sad, of all things.

His drowsy musings were disturbed by the air pressure changing abruptly. He perked up, but his bond pulsed with a comforting warmth and his muscles relaxed on their own accord just as grey mist billowed in through the window.

Regis materialized next to the tub, looking mischievous.

“Am I disturbing you?” he asked, and then laughed as Geralt splashed some water on him.

“Pardon my intrusion,” he continued as he settled on a low stool next to the tub and leaned against the rim, “but I thought it very rude that you were made to bathe without having me here.”

“Of course you did,” Geralt laughed.

The anxiety in his gut settled down a bit as he took in Regis’ familiar face. He reached over and tucked some hair behind the vampire’s ear. “Gonna get your hair cut? You’ll need a hair tie soon.”

Regis made a contemplative hum as Geralt continued stroking his hair, his black eyes slipping shut.

“I haven’t decided yet, to be honest. I used to wear my hair long when I was younger, and that was part of the reason I chose to keep it short after my first regeneration.”

“It’s much darker than back in summer.” Geralt smiled, and Regis opened his eyes and leaned over to kiss him.

“You remember what I told you,” he said quietly. “You’re helping me heal.” He drew back and watched Geralt, his eyes gentle. “May I wash your hair?”

“Sure.” Geralt shifted in the tub, allowing Regis to pull out the hair tie and bury his clever fingers into his hair. The vampire sorted out the biggest tangles and then carefully wetted the strands before starting to work in some soap.

“Traveling with you again after all these years is making me happy,” Regis said as he massaged his scalp. “I love the idea of having a home, but with you I could imagine going anywhere and not missing anything.”

Geralt grunted, his eyes slipping shut as Regis moved on to his neck and worked out kinks in the muscles there. He was calming down; the rest of his worries vanished one by one, and he knew that as long as he’d have Regis, everything would be alright.

“Just missing an annoying poetaster and a few others, and we could make a real nuisance of ourselves,” the witcher remarked, and drew a bark of laughter from Regis.

Building the shrine had helped. Thinking about departed friends no longer hurt like someone had stuck a shiv between his ribs.

“Oh, what we could achieve with a Nilfgaardian in our group,” Regis teased, and Geralt didn’t have to look to know the vampire was grinning ear to ear.

“Not a Nilfgaardian,” he laughed. “Remember, Cahir was from Vicovaro.”

“Mm, so he always said,” Regis said, amusement making his voice lilt upwards. “And how good would it be to have an archer and a young rogue to complete the band.”

“True enough,” Geralt sighed. Regis pressed a kiss to his cheek as he rinsed the soap off.

“The time with the hansa is easily one of my favorite spans of time,” Regis mused as he settled against the tub and brought his hand to rest on Geralt’s chest. “Not the troubles that brought us together, mind you, but the camaraderie and trust.”

“I know what you mean,” Geralt said. Regis turned his head to the side, and the kiss that followed was equal parts happiness and comfort; relief that after everything, they had managed to survive, and have this.

Against his better knowledge, Geralt brushed his tongue against Regis’ lips. He knew they were expected in the hall soon, and as Regis’ breath hitched he promptly forgot about it. The vampire cradled his head before kissing him more fervently, and by the time they pulled apart Geralt was panting and more than ready to climb into Regis’ lap. The bed was looking like the most inviting thing he had seen in several days, after sleeping on the narrow and hard bunk of the ship for over a week. Damn, he was getting soft in his old age.

“You look delectable,” Regis grinned, his fangs flashing in the warm light of the oil lamps. Something dark brushed the bond, and Geralt drew in a breath.

“I bet I could make you utter all manner of glorious noises,” Regis went on, one hand gripping Geralt’s hair gently and the other slipping lower and lower on his front. Geralt let out a soft sigh as Regis’ fingers dipped into the water and grasped his cock. He started to stroke it slowly, and bent down again to kiss Geralt, swallowing the stifled moans.

“I admit, the secrecy we’re forced to abide by makes me want you even more,” Regis said when he finally pulled up for air. His thumb brushed against the slit, and Geralt bit his lip to avoid whimpering. The imperative to conceal things was getting to him, and Regis putting it to  _ words  _ riled him up.

He pushed up from the tub and drew Regis closer once the need to get to feel him got overwhelming. Regis laughed as Geralt sprayed water on him, and then he was dragging the witcher to the bed, turning into a puff of smoke and rematerializing just to push him down. After the hot water and the beginnings of a lazy handjob, Geralt was flushed and aching to have Regis as close to him as possible; who knew when the next possibility would come?

Geralt rolled them over and grasped their cocks in his hand. Regis made a breathy moan as he started to work them together, his own precum smoothing the way. Geralt met him in a sloppy kiss, and Regis stroked his hands up and down his back, reaching further to grab his ass, and then grinding them together.

Geralt tried to hold off his release, but he felt Regis grow harder and harder as his breathing became harsh and his eyes were threatened to be entirely swallowed by the black. Geralt clung onto the last dregs of sanity as he twisted his wrist, and with that Regis came; a breathy moan punched out of him as Geralt felt him coat his hand with thick spurts, and the feeling tipped him over. He barely avoided collapsing down on Regis as his cock throbbed and he drew out the pleasure. Regis didn’t let him go when he finally came down a bit, and they ended up half on top of each other. 

Geralt barely had time to draw in a deep, satisfied breath, when a knock on the door made both of them jolt. Regis must’ve been deep inside his head to have missed the footsteps, because he only glanced at Geralt with wide, apologetic eyes before puffing up into a cloud of smoke and gliding out of the room.

Geralt scrambled off the bed, shouting a hoarse “ _ Just a moment! _ ” as he tried to hunt down something to cover himself with. In the end he settled for a towel, draping it on his hips and hoping against hope that whoever was looking for him wouldn’t have too keen an eye.

“Master witcher,” Oddleifr begun the second Geralt creaked the door open. His eyes widened, and he seemed to forget what he had been about to say. Then he pulled himself together.

“The dinner will be served shortly,” he said in a completely flat tone.

“Yes, yes, the servant boy mentioned that,” Geralt said. He tried to look like he had just climbed out of the bath, and not like he had been rutting against his lover not ten seconds ago. Judging by the slight color climbing on Oddleifr’s neck, he wasn’t doing a very good job.

“Good. Good. We will see you soon,” the man said and turned around, rushing away with every appearance of a man who knew he had almost walked in on something private.

Geralt closed the door and rubbed a hand down his face. A glance in the mirror confirmed he looked just as thoroughly-fucked as he has feared; his hair was sticking up on one side, and his whole body was flushed. Muttering a curse, Geralt flung the towel away and set to washing himself and dressing up. A stray worry came and went, but Geralt told himself the seneschal had no way of knowing what Geralt had been doing.

Regis was waiting for him when he exited his room. They exchanged a look and then had to look away to keep a straight face; Geralt felt half-hysterical laughter bubbling inside himself, and he was certain it would spill free if he looked his mate in the eye.

Fortunately, Cerys had arranged them to eat in her chambers instead of the big hall. Geralt found himself seated next to Hjalmar. Regis roped the Skelliger into telling the story of the ice giant, and Hjalmar obliged with a huge grin. Geralt offered his customary dry remarks, and by the time the servants poured them glasses of rich, brown spirits from the Kaer Trolde’s own distillery, Geralt could tell Cerys’ brother liked Regis. The vampire seemed to find the older of the an Craite siblings agreeable company.

“So, Geralt,” Cerys said when there was a lull in the conversation. “How is life treating you? I heard you took a short jaunt to Toussaint earlier.” She swirled her drink in her hand with a grin that told Geralt she’d heard much of the news from Ciri already.

“I did,” Geralt nodded. “The Duchess wanted to hire me.” He tried to discern just how much his daughter might’ve written to her friend and decide whether he would need to tell some white lies to smooth out the rougher bits.

“Nasty business,” Cerys said, her face sobering. “From what I heard, it didn’t go exactly as planned, what with Anna Henrietta’s sister getting killed.”

“You could say that,” Geralt answered. He sensed Regis’ and Hjalmar watching them closely, the latter clearly bursting with curiosity.

“What kind of a beast did the Duchess need killed?” Hjalmar asked. 

Geralt sighed. “A vampire.”

“It did turn out Sylvia Anna wasn’t exactly innocent, although the Duchess tried to swipe that bit under the rug,” Regis put in. His tone was smooth, but Geralt sensed the spike of anger in him at the memory. 

Cerys leaned forward. “I heard a rumor about that,” she said, watching Regis with a raised eyebrow. “So, you were there as well, master Regis?”

Regis nodded, completely unfaced. “I was, yes.”

Cerys drew in a breath and then halted, until she turned to look at Geralt. “Is it true the vampire escaped? I have my sources of information in Toussaint, naturally, but I find it hard to believe you would let it go without a fight.”

Geralt willed himself to stay relaxed as he took a sip of the spirit. Regis was watching him from the corner of his eye, and the bond was rippling with anxiety.

“It wasn’t that simple,” he finally said. “Sylvia Anna was the real villain.”

Something flashed in Cerys’ eyes. Geralt wanted to call it satisfaction.

“Fighting a higher vampire is suicidal,” he went on, still trying to pick his way through the discussion without tripping over anything. “They’re—”

The door to the chambers opened, cutting him off, and a woman with strawberry blonde hair entered. She was dressed in muted colors, but Geralt saw right away her clothes were of high quality. She looked to be around thirty-five, with a brisk walk and an easy posture.

“Pardon me,” she said. Her voice had the distinct islander lilt. “My lady, the druids just delivered their latest report. You told me you wanted to hear it right away.”

Cerys rose up with a smile and waved the woman closer.

“Good timing. Leah, I want you to meet Geralt of Rivia. Geralt’s an old friend of my family, and the witcher I asked for help in the matter of the curse. Geralt, this is Leah, my advisor.”

To Geralt’s surprise, Leah extended a hand to him. He shook it, and the woman met his eyes steadily. They were a very pale shade of green.

“Good to meet you, master witcher. I trust queen Cerys has told you everything already?”

“Yeah.”

“What are the druids saying?” Cerys asked.

Leah glanced around the room, and her eyes came to a stop at Regis. She then turned towards Cerys, who waved her hand as she sat down again.

“Master Regis is a trusted friend of Geralt’s. Anything you wished to say, he can hear as well.”

Leah nodded, but something like careful curiosity seemed to light up her face.

“Very well. Ermion sent word from Hindarsfjall. The garden of Freya is still dead, and while it keeps emanating dark energy, it is not the source of the curse.”

Cerys swore softly. “Shit. I was hoping we’d get a good lead from that accursed place.” She met Geralt’s eyes and her expression turned a bit apologetic.

“I’m not blaming you, or Lady Yennefer, for what happened to the garden. The priestesses of Freya have been claiming the place is cursed, however, and I thought it necessary to investigate.”

Geralt nodded, and a stab of guilt went through him again.

“But it has nothing to do with the curse?” he asked.

Leah shook her head. “Not as far as the hierophant knows. He advises us to keep the garden locked down, until he and the druids come up with a way to drain the black magic from the location. But no, the current curse is not coming from there.”

Geralt felt simultaneously relieved and disappointed. If the garden of Freya had been the source of the curse, he would’ve gladly gone and battled whatever monstrosity was causing it in order to repair the damage. He kept feeling bad for the priestesses.

Cerys leaned back. “Well, we can keep talking tomorrow. Geralt, anything you might need, ask Leah or Oddleifr. They are my eyes and ears around the keep, and I trust both of them.”

“Got it.” Geralt considered asking about the seneschal, but Cerys stifled a huge yawn just then.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I will go and fall unconscious for some hours,” the queen said with a tired smile. “I’m glad you’re here, Geralt.”

Geralt smiled back to her, and watched as she left the room with Leah, who launched into an explanation about some clan Drummond demands as soon as she left the table. 

 

Later, when Geralt was already in bed and feeling heavy and warm, he felt the air shift again. He had blown out the candles, and in the dim light spilling through the narrow windows he could just make out the familiar grey smoke sneaking through some minuscule gap in the window pane. A moment later the mattress dipped, and a lithe body climbed under the sheets.

“Hello,” Regis whispered as he spooned Geralt and pressed a kiss to his neck. “I couldn’t resist the temptation.”

“Welcome back,” Geralt chuckled, enjoying how Regis was holding him, moving just slightly against him as the heat returned in lazy brushes of skin.

“I was about to tell you, before we were ever so rudely interrupted, how very dear you are to me,” Regis continued, as his hand wandered lower and elicited a shiver. “And what I intended to do to you after the dinner.”

“Love you too,” Geralt murmured, pushing back against Regis as he felt his hardening cock tease his ass. They were silent after that, both content to continue touching in darkness, the only sounds being an occasional soft gasp or a cut-off moan.

Regis pushed Geralt on his front when he finally reached for him, the familiar smell of the oil thick in the air; Geralt had half a thought to ask where exactly Regis had carried the oil into his room, but that vanished soon after. Regis didn’t waste time with his fingers, but he managed to leave Geralt arching into his touch by the time he pushed inside.

Geralt’s eyes flew open when he felt the ridges teasing his hole, and he had to bury his face into a pillow to muffle the indecent sound he made when Regis pushed in, luxuriously slow and teasing.

“Oh, love, you’re doing so well,” Regis gasped, his chest pressing against Geralt’s back. The last ridge slipped in, and Geralt sobbed, his throat dry and cock aching. Regis held him as close as possible as he rocked into him, hands firm around his middle. The vampire took his time, never once increasing the tempo, and little by little Geralt slipped into a pleasant haze.

He couldn’t tell how long Regis fucked him, all the while holding him and whispering stray words of praise, because it all melted together. The bond soothed over everything that had bothered him about the day, and only a floating, loving darkness prevailed. He felt his release as something that begun from a deep, echoing place, ripping through him like a spasm, and dragging Regis over right away as well.

They fell asleep together, and the witcher half-awoke in the early hours of the day as Regis slipped out of the bed. He could hear distant noises coming from elsewhere in the keep as the vampire kissed his forehead and vanished in a wisp of smoke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot gremlin told me there will be a few chapters more, so. Just know what you're getting into.
> 
> Comments feed the Gremlin.


	4. Knife's Edge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the comments and kudos, everyone. ;__; <3 My headmeats haven't been co-operating lately, and reading all the nice words has helped me through hard days. 
> 
> Here is chapter 4, in which shit starts hitting the proverbial fan. You fed the gremlin, go reap your rewards.
> 
> [Tsurai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsurai/pseuds/tsurai) did their beta magic again. <3

###  4.

The next morning dawned murky and snowy. The clouds had arrived during the night, and were now doing their level best to bury all of Ard Skellig into a white, powdery layer. The wind howled outside the courtyard as Geralt walked out of the keep with Regis. Errant snowflakes drifted up and down the yard, and the guards on duty were looking grumpy.

“I need to go see the smith,” Geralt sighed. He still had a hard time accepting Aerondight was currently resting at the bottom of the sea, but he needed to get a new silver blade if he meant to start solving the curse. Hell, even stumbling upon a lone wraith or a nekker nest was dangerous without proper weapons. 

“I know,” Regis said as he finished tugging his hooded cloak on and adjusting the collar. “I'll go down to the village, see if I can find Dettlaff. He found something yesterday.” 

“Alright. Let's meet at the New Port Inn in a few hours.”

“Take care,” Regis murmured. Geralt would've wanted to kiss him, but he settled on brushing the bond, making the vampire's mouth quirk up in a smile. 

“Don't get blown into the sea,” Geralt added, and Regis chuckled as he turned away and soon disappeared into the whirling snow. Geralt assumed he'd go through the trouble of walking down into the village, in order to appear human. Regis understood the importance of disguises even better than Geralt. 

The smith and the armourer had rigged up a crude shelter to keep most of the snow out from their nook of the keep. The forge was wafting hot puffs into the cold air, making everyone close by sweat and shiver in quick succession. Geralt watched them for a while and then walked in, greeting them with a smile. 

“Master witcher,” the smith, whose name Geralt thought was Yanne, said with a gruff grin. “What can I help you with?”

“Need a new silver blade. My old one got lost at the sea.”

“I'm guessing there's a story to that,” the smith said, and Geralt shrugged, not wanting to dwell on it. 

“A siren attack. I took a dip into the water.”

“Shite. Those buggers are getting bold.” Yanne glanced around his workshop, pursing his lips. “Truth be told, witcher, I'm woefully short on silver blades as it is, but if yer not in a hurry, I can bang one out for you. We got a shipment of enchanted silver the other day, and I've been waiting for a job good enough to use it.” 

“How long?” Geralt asked, curiosity raising its head. Enchanted silver sounded promising. 

“Tomorrow morning, at the latest. I know the queen hired you, so I'll make it a priority.” 

“Thanks, I appreciate it.” Geralt glanced around the shop, the alternating breaths of hot and cold air making him shiver slightly. Suddenly a glint of dark steel caught his eye. 

As he bent down to investigate, he saw it was a knife with a simple, but unmistakably gnomish blade. The handle was made from black bone, and carved with intricate figures of herbs. Something about it tugged at him. 

The smith leaned on the anvil and nodded towards the knife. “A beauty, eh? A traveler left it as a payment a while ago at the inn when he couldn't pay for his lodgings. The innkeep sold it to me. The blade is old gnome steel, and the handle is made from an old bone even the druids couldn't identify.”

“How much do you want for it?” Geralt asked before he could think the idea through. 

“Tell you what,” Yanne said after thinking for a second, “I'll give you a good price for that, since you're going to get a lot poorer for that blade.” 

“Thank you,” Geralt said, watching a bit numbly as the smith slipped the knife into a leather sheath and then wrapped it in a piece of oilcloth. 

The walk down to Kaer Trolde village was dreadful. Geralt knew he'd need to borrow a horse from the stables if he meant to get anywhere during winter. The latest Roach was currently wintering in comfort at Corvo Bianco. 

The flying snow stung his eyes, and by the time he could spy the harbor his fingers were getting stiff with cold. The few people he spied outside were all hurrying to get back indoors as soon as possible, no one stopping to chat as usual.

Geralt walked around the village despite the weather turning worse by the minute. There was a new statue of Crach an Craite, carved from rough stone, standing proud at the market square. It faced the sea, as if waiting for yet another Imperial fleet to peek beyond the horizon. Geralt gave it a small smile as he passed. He visited the herbalist and bought some essentials and got haggled into a round of gwent, and by the time he finally turned his steps towards the New Port Inn he was getting hungry. 

The innkeep greeted him happily and cleared a table for him, despite the longhouse being almost full of people sitting out the snowstorm. Geralt talked with the guy as he waited for Regis, and learned the man had decided to stay in Ard Skellig, despite Undvik being safe once more. 

“More people around here,” he said as he watched over the bubbling kettle. “More stories to hear, and my clansmen venture out now that we got a taste of the world outside our isle. They now have a familiar face here on Ard Skellig.” 

The bond pulsed inside Geralt's head, and as he turned he saw Regis and Dettlaff brushing snow off their clothes and then walking to him. 

“Almost time for lunch,” Regis said as he greeted the innkeep and they sat down. Dettlaff nodded to Geralt, who could tell the two vampires had discovered something of interest; the bond they shared was rippling. 

Once they had food and ale before them, Geralt lifted an eyebrow, and Dettlaff nodded. He picked at his meal in silence for a while and then blew out a breath. 

“I ran into a higher vampire yesterday.” 

“You what?” Geralt hissed, trying not to choke on his food. He cast a glance around them, but the people were more interested in the fisherman who had just come in and started lamenting his torn nets. 

Dettlaff nodded and looked down. “I think she was the one calling me here, but she threatened me, and told me to back off.” 

He fell silent again, and then said even more quietly: “Her face—her true face, I mean—looked much like Regis’.” 

“Really?” Regis eyes grew wide. “You neglected to mention that.” 

“Hang on,” Geralt said, looking between the two. “What does that mean?”

“She is from my tribe, most likely,” Regis explained with a apologetic smile. “Gharasham.”

Geralt frowned. He cycled through his memories of Regis true face, the way it looked when he let all of his disguise drop away, and suddenly something didn't make sense. 

“But you belong to Gharasham as well,” he said to Dettlaff. The sentence came out like a question, and Dettlaff's face turned dark. 

Geralt remembered what Dettlaff looked like when he shifted, and it was really nothing like Regis. His nose and eyes were unlike Regis’, his ear were shorter, and his teeth and jaw were different as well. Geralt had always assumed it was just a higher vampire thing, but now he wasn't so sure. 

Regis seemed to be having a wordless conversation with Dettlaff. His hand brushed against his friend's arm when he turned his eyes back to Geralt. 

“He is. But it has not always been so,” Regis said, his voice dropping even lower. 

Geralt felt his eyes widen. “I thought the other tribes had left the Continent. You told me so, back in Tesham Mutna.” 

“They have,” Dettlaff said before Regis could continue. “Long ago. But some of us were left behind.” His face closed off, and it was clear he wasn't going to elaborate on the subject. 

Geralt knew what it felt like when people started digging up past hurts, so he just nodded and tried to send a sweep of reassurance over the bond to show he didn't really want to pry.  Dettlaff met his eyes and a careful sort of acceptance answered Geralt. Regis cleared his throat and mercifully changed the subject. 

“How did it go with the smith?” he asked. 

Geralt smiled, remembering the knife tucked away inside his jacket. 

“He promised to make me a new sword. I'll get it tomorrow.”

“That's a relief,” Regis smiled. He looked at Dettlaff, whose gaze had only now fixed on the empty scabbard hanging from Geralt's back. 

“What happened?” he asked. 

“When I fell into the sea, the siren bit my arm,” Geralt said. A ghost of the pain flashed through him, and he tried to push it away. “I dropped the silver sword.” 

“I'm sorry,” Dettlaff said. “The blade meant a lot to you.” 

“Yeah, it did.” Geralt didn't feel like elaborating, so instead he pulled out the wad of oilcloth and laid it down on the table next to Regis. 

“Listen, I know you don't really need this, but I thought of you when I saw it,” he said as Regis’ eyes flashed with curiosity. “And maybe it's good for appearances sake that you have a weapon of some sort.”

It sounded lame in his own ears, but as Regis unwrapped the knife and carefully pulled it out of the sheath, his eyes widened. He carefully ran his finger over the carved plants. 

“Honeysuckle and astragalus,” Regis whispered. Geralt met his eyes, and the bond thrummed with adoration for a few seconds. Then Regis averted his eyes as he reached to strap the knife into his belt. His fingers brushed the handle before he smiled, swallowing heavily. 

“Thank you.” 

There was definitely an “I love you” buried in the words and singing to Geralt, who fought back a blush and rubbed his neck. 

“Maybe we should go to Holmstein tomorrow?” Geralt suggested to make Regis stop looking at him like the vampire was considering dragging him into the nearest dark corner and kissing him silly. Or to take his own mind off the idea. 

“Isn't it the town of clan Drummond?” Regis asked, tempering his gaze and smiling crookedly. 

“It is. They were the last settlement in Ard Skellig to contract the nightmares.” He rubbed his chin, making an idle notion to maybe get the beard trimmed short before setting out. 

“I need to get a horse to travel there, but you can always fly if you don't feel like taking the slower way.” 

Regis glanced around them and then smiled. “I may have to ride with you. It would be hard to explain how I got to Holmstein without that.” 

Geralt gave a laugh and turned to Dettlaff. “How about you? Feel like joining us?”

To his surprise, Dettlaff nodded right away. 

“Gladly. I can't seek out the woman I met before, not after she forbid it, but I can't shake the feeling that there is something I need to do here.” The dark vampire brooded for a moment before offering them a slight grin. “But I will forgo riding, if you don't mind.” 

***

Dettlaff disappeared somewhere with a murmured goodbye after they vacated the inn, and Regis followed Geralt towards the road that would take them back to the keep. Geralt spoke about his plans, mostly to himself, and Regis let his thoughts drift. He felt the knife against his side, and its unfamiliar weight drew a smile to his lips. 

Aside from being beautiful, the knife somehow felt like it belonged to him right away. Regis wasn't much for material possessions, but he knew he'd hang on to the gift, and not only because of the giver; the memory of Geralt's hesitancy when he had pushed the bundle of cloth across the table made Regis heart swell. 

Geralt visited a seamstress to buy a set of bone needles and strong yarn to patch up something, and Regis waited outside. He wasn't even remotely bothered by the cold, and the snowfall was finally letting up. The wind was calming by degrees, and the floating snowflakes turned the dim afternoon almost magical. Regis watched a woman selling traditional garments across the square, and as his eyes tracked the colorful designs he got an idea. 

The clouds ran out of snow to dump on them by the time they made it to the first bridge. Regis was humming as they walked, his mind calm and happy. Geralt exchanged greetings with the guards manning the bridge, but just before they stepped into the tunnel that would take them to the fortress, Regis pulled him aside. 

“I have something for you,” he said quietly. The nearest guards were busy warming themselves by a brazier, and light was fading around them. 

“You didn't have to—” Geralt begun with a laugh, but Regis stopped him by pressing his fingers to the witchers lips. 

“I know, but I wanted to.” The vampire pulled the scarf from underneath his cloak and reached to wrap it around Geralt's neck. The witcher squinted at it and then grinned as he felt the soft, green wool settle against his exposed throat. 

“It is made from a special kind of wool that is supposed to stay warm even if it gets wet,” Regis said with a smile. He stepped a bit closer and Geralt's hands landed on his hips, sure and gentle. 

“Thanks,” Geralt whispered. He looked around, and then clearly thought  _ fuck it _ . He swooped down and brushed a kiss against Regis’ lips. A second later they stepped back as the change of the guards slipped out of the tunnel. They cast a curious eye at Geralt as they passed, and the pair continued their way to the keep in comfortable silence. 

Regis thought about sleeping in his own bed that night, but as he sat down on it and knew Geralt was only a few doors away, his gut felt hollow. He knew his mate was safe and sound, curled up under a thick duvet and probably half asleep by now. He knew they would both be okay, and the point in time when the need for the contact lessened would come, and still… 

Geralt’s sleepy eyes crinkled with a relieved smile when Regis materialized next to his bed and slipped under the covers. His mate was always like a human furnace, and Regis gladly snuggled closer, the bond soothing them both. Geralt smelled of snow and leather, and curled up around him, Regis felt like he was at home.

***

The next morning they woke up early, and Regis quietly slipped back into his own room. They met at the hall to break their fast and inform queen Cerys of their imminent plans. She looked worried when Geralt told her they would set out for Holmstein, but didn’t voice any suspicions. Geralt spent the breakfast interrogating Hjalmar about anything and everything that could have something to do with the curse, with moderate success; the man clearly wanted to help, but no one seemed to be sure what had brought on the nightmares.

Kaer Trolde’s stablemaster met them with bleary eyes and a vaguely annoyed expression. He brightened when Geralt told him who they were, and launched into a lengthy monologue about the horses they might consider for their journey. Regis trailed after Geralt and the man, smiling to himself and staying far enough from the horses so they wouldn’t be unduly alarmed by him.

The mule named Draakul had been so fundamentally disinterested in him Regis couldn’t have helped liking the animal. He felt bad whenever an animal was alarmed by his presence, especially since he was rather fond of horses and cats.

The stablemaster dragged Geralt off to see a fine, grey mare, and Regis stalled, trying to gauge whether any of the horses would allow him to mount. He stood quietly in the middle of the stable, turning his gaze from one horse to another, until finally he spied one that caught his interest in the far corner. Unlike others, it didn’t put its ears back when he looked at it, merely looked him.

Regis walked to the stall slowly, but the black gelding only whinnied, its ears pointing straight ahead the whole time. When the vampire got within touching distance, the horse actually reached over the door, nudging his hands with the soft muzzle. Regis caressed the white starburst shape on the gelding’s forehead and smiled.

“Oi, careful master. That un’s got bit of a temper,” a soft voice came from behind. Regis turned around, his hand still buried in the thick, black mane. A young girl was regarding him with wary eyes, but when she saw the horse wasn’t going to bite off any fingers, she relaxed and flicked her light brown braid over her shoulder.

“Never seen ‘im like anyone so quick,” she said with a smile. “Usually he bites before anyone gets too close.”

“Maybe I’m just very talented with  _ Equus ferus caballus _ ,” Regis laughed, and the girl grinned as she leaned on the manure fork.

“Aye, might be, or maybe you’s got a temper as bad as he does,” she quipped back. Regis decided he liked her.

“Does he have a name?” he asked, stroking the mane. The girl stepped closer and dug out a leathery piece of carrot she offered to the gelding. The horse bumped her arm in a way that told Regis the girl had won the animal over long ago.

“Master Sven calls him ‘bastard,’ but his real name’s Kumpel.” The horse pricked up its ears when it heard its name, and Regis smiled.

“My companion and I need to borrow horses for our task. Might I request him?” he asked. The girl’s blue eyes brightened.

“Sure! Poor boy gets so little attention it’ll do him good. But,” her tone turned serious, “only if you promise to look after him. He’s not mean, only misunderstood.”

“I swear I will do my best no harm comes to Kumpel,” Regis said, and the girl laughed again. She nodded towards a smaller room adjacent to the main stable.

“Have you ever used a stock saddle? ‘M afraid Kumpel won’t accept nothing else.”

By the time Regis had finished Dara’s crash course into the world of stock saddles and was finishing the adjustments to the stirrups, Geralt walked the grey mare out of the stables. The mare snorted at Kumpel, who flattened his ears until Dara stroked his muzzle and murmured softly.

“Now, boy, you need to behave. Be nice to Regis.”

“Found a mount?” the witcher asked as he cast a glance over the black gelding.

“That I did,” Regis smiled. Kumpel pushed his muzzle against his head and blew out a hot breath, ruffling his hair. Geralt laughed, his golden eyes lighting up.

“Never seen a horse like you that much. Even Draakul seemed to just tolerate you.”

Regis knew it was an observation about his true nature and not meant as a malice, but Dara spoke up, seeming a bit offended on Regis’ behalf.

“Oi, master witcher, I’ll have you know Kumpel’s a picky ‘un.” She scowled at Geralt, and Regis couldn’t detect an ounce of fear from her.

Geralt’s face turned sheepish. Regis listened to him offer a sincere apology to Dara and, by extension, to Kumpel, but through the bond he could tell the witcher liked the stable girl as well.

When they finally made it back to the courtyard with their mounts, the sun was more than halfway over the eastern horizon. Regis knew they had a long day’s ride ahead of them, and they set to fixing their gear to the saddles without much talk. The smith came by as well, and Regis paused to watch him draw a silver sword from scabbard with a flourish.

The man looked unkempt and like he hadn’t slept properly for a while, but the sword seemed exquisite. The blade glistened in the pale light, and the smith handed it to Geralt like one would give up their first-born child. Regis saw runewords etched into the blade, and made a mental note to ask about them later.

He was stroking Kumpel’s side and watching the smith prattle on, when a familiar voice called for him.

“Master Regis. A moment?”

It was the seneschal, Oddleifr. His scar looked even more prominent on his face in the morning sunlight as he beckoned Regis to join him by a doorway. Only when Regis came to a stop next to him and met his eyes did he realize they were no longer open. There was only something cold.

“What is it?” he asked when the man didn’t speak immediately. He stepped on the crawling apprehension, something telling him to keep this to himself for the time being.

Oddleifr looked down on him in silence, and Regis realized with a jolt that the man was trying to intimidate him. The thought felt absurd, but then Regis reminded himself the man saw a middle-aged healer; a lithe and not particularly tall human.

“I’ll be blunt,” Oddleifr said in a quiet tone. “You didn’t sleep in your own rooms. Not once.”

Clammy dread settled on Regis in a matter of seconds. He desperately hoped nothing showed on his face, but Oddleifr’s face turned vindictive, and he knew he had failed to conceal his reaction.

“You are not welcome in Kaer Trolde,” the man whispered. “We don’t need your kind here.”

Regis opened his mouth, but the man narrowed his eyes. “I cannot order the witcher out, but if I ever see your degenerate face again, I swear to Freya I will tell everyone he fucks men. It’ll be the end of his welcome.”

Regis desperately clamped down on his horror to avoid having it trickle over the bond. Thank the gods Geralt was so focused on the blade he wasn’t paying much attention to his surroundings.

Regis saw right away that Oddleifr knew exactly what he was doing; the man was threatening Geralt, but choosing to address Regis, because he had somehow guessed how much the witcher meant to him.

“Queen Cerys has no need for filth like you,” Oddleifr said, and then he was gone before Regis could do anything but stare in shock.

He was distantly aware of walking back to his horse, and the animal nuzzling his hand. The touch brought him a step towards reality again. Regis leaned on the warm flank and took a few moments to breathe in and out. He knew he must conceal this for the time being, because otherwise Geralt would go and cause a scene. Regis knew his mate well enough, and if Geralt thought Regis’ honor had been insulted, he’d go and rip the seneschal to shreds.

No, Regis thought. He needed to think about this. He needed to weigh the risks and come up with some sort of a solution, because there was much more at risk here; Geralt liked Skellige and had friends here, and no way in all hells would Regis be the cause to take that away from him.

His thoughts were interrupted by Leah, who suddenly appeared by his elbow. Her brow was furrowed.

“Master Regis, a moment?”

Regis forcibly dragged his thoughts back into the present moment. “Leah. What can I do for you?”

The woman looked at him closely, her pale green eyes sharp. She was wrapped up in a cloak with a fur collar, the erratic wind whipping up her hair. Abruptly, she laid a hand on Regis’ arm.

“You look worried,” she said quietly. “Did you have trouble with Oddleifr?”

Regis swallowed and did his best to bring his expression under control.

“Nothing I can’t handle, my lady.”

Leah snorted. “I’m no lady. But I am worried about the seneschal sticking his nose into this.”

“Why?” Regis asked. He’d had a hard time getting a read on Leah when they had met, but now she was looking at him with honest eyes.

“He is…a loyal man,” Leah finally said. “But he has a past, just like everyone, and at times it clouds his judgement.”

Regis sighed as he shook his head. He wasn’t about to confide in Leah, but he did appreciate the sentiment.

“As I said, it has little to do with our current task,” he said with a tight smile. “I will deal with him later.”

How, he didn’t know, but he’d have time to figure it out. Leah nodded and wrapped her cloak tighter around herself.

“Very well. Just remember you have friends here, master.” She bowed her head and navigated the icy yard back to the main doors, giving Regis a small wave before vanishing back inside.

 

The day was overcast and grey, but it didn’t snow. The road to Kaer Muire and Holmstein was busy with people now that the storm had passed, and in the few hours they rode along it, Regis saw that the White Wolf was a relatively familiar face in Ard Skellig. Some people greeted him with the air of having met him fleetingly, but almost everyone turned to look, some even turning around once they had passed to continue staring. 

Geralt didn’t seem to notice. The bond stayed quiet, and Regis could tell his mate was deep in thought as he puzzled over what few leads they had.

Personally, Regis spent a good portion of the ride mulling over the newest problem. His gut was tight with worry, and no amount of distance they put between themselves and Kaer Trolde made that knot come loose. Regis wasn’t familiar with Skellige’s customs, but everything pointed to the islanders being even more conservative than people on the Continent. If Oddleifr felt the need to expose them, it would surely mean trouble. For him, yes, but to Geralt especially.

“You’re brooding.”

Geralt’s voice cut through Regis’ dark thoughts, and the vampire straightened in his saddle. Geralt was frowning as he steered his horse to a place where a campfire had recently been put out.

“Everything alright?” he asked as he dismounted. Regis glanced at the sun, and surmised it must be time for a break.

“Yes,” he sighed as he hopped down and stroked Kummel’s mane. “I’m just worried.”

It wasn’t a lie, per se, so Regis didn’t feel as bad as outright spewing falsehoods to his lover. Geralt looked around and stepped closer, drawing him into a hug and kissing his brow. His lips were chapped, and the touch sent a jolt of dull pain through Regis. He needed to solve this mess.

“Don’t be,” Geralt said and smiled. Sun was breaking through the clouds, and its rays caught the white hair and golden eyes, and for a while Regis forgot to breathe. His mate, his home in the world; he’d do anything to protect Geralt.

The vampire forced a smile as he stepped back to made sure his horse could enjoy the break as well. “Well, you know me,” he threw over his shoulder. “I’m very good at worrying.”

Geralt huffed a laugh as he dug out rations. “No lie. You feel like eating?”

“Sure.”

 

It was almost evening the following day when they arrived to their destination. Geralt decided to go straight to Kaer Muire to talk to the jarl, and Regis rode after him on the steep, uneven path that led to the fortress. He kept looking out at the sea, watching the village at the foot of the mountain come alive with lights and fires as the evening progressed. Light faded quickly at these latitudes, and the snow was looking blue when they finally came to the heavy gates.

“Who goes there?” a guard asked. He was standing by a brazier and squinting into the dusk.

“Geralt of Rivia, on a contract from Queen Cerys. I request a meeting with the jarl of clan Drummond.” The witcher hopped down from the saddle, and Regis followed his example.

“And him?” the guard prodded, pointing his spear at Regis.

“Emiel Regis. A surgeon and a friend.”

The guard went to the heavy doors and knocked. A small hatch flew open and he murmured to the person on the other side. A moment later the gate opened slowly, and the pair walked their horses into the inner courtyard.

“He will wait here,” the guard on the other side said. Her tone was neutral, and her eyes flickered between Geralt and Regis.

Geralt glanced at Regis, who only nodded. The mare put her ears back when Regis was handed the reigns, but then decided to follow Kumpel’s example and start to nibble the dry grass at their feet. Regis let the horses graze on whatever they could find from the barren earth, and looked around. The keep seemed like it had seen some heavy rebuilding in the past years; new stone stood out darker than the old, sun-bleached one, and the smell of resin hung faintly in the air. Regis watched an armorer take measurements from a pair of young lads, when a pleasant voice interrupted him.

“Care to water the horses?”

When Regis turned, he saw he was being addressed by a woman with dark hair on a braid. She gave him a small smile, and Regis mirrored it.

“Gladly. That path gave them quite an exercise.”

The woman motioned for Regis to follow. She was wearing a thick, simple woollen dress and an orange cloak over it. The horses perked up when they saw the trough, and Regis let them drink in peace. He turned back to the woman, who didn’t seem to be in any hurry to leave.

“Do you live here?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No. Down in Holmstein, with my brats.” Her mouth quirked up. “You’re not from the isles at all, I’d wager.”

Regis laughed. “Is it that obvious?” The woman nodded, still looking amused. “That’s true. I’m here helping a friend on a job. I normally live in Toussaint.”

Memory of Corvo Bianco warmed him for a moment. In the end, they would go back home. Together.

“The land of fairytales,” the woman mused.

“And wine,” Regis added. “Never forget the wine, lest you want to offend the Touissantous horribly.”

She laughed, and shook her head. “Never been to Toussaint, but I’ll keep that in mind. What is your friend doing here?”

Regis paused at that, trying to decide whether he should divulge Geralt’s identity to a complete stranger. The problem was abruptly solved for him when the witcher appeared from the door of the keep. A spike of annoyance came through the bond, and Regis could tell the meeting with the jarl hadn’t gone as well as he’d hoped.

Geralt’s eyes met his, and his scowl softened immediately. A touch of joy warmed Regis, when he realized he caused his mate’s mood to lighten, but then the woman turned around and saw Geralt.

She went stiff at the sight of him, and when Geralt reached the two of them, she nodded to Regis and fled. Regis smelled something odd when she brushed past him, like a floral perfume, but from fresh flowers. In the middle of winter?

“Who was that?” Geralt asked, looking after her.

“Just a local,” Regis shrugged.

“Didn’t look happy to see me.”

Regis saw the woman slip out of the gates and vanish, and shook his head. “Maybe she’s afraid of witchers.” He glanced at Geralt and flashed a grin. “You are very scary, you know.”

Geralt laughed, but it soon died away. Regis remembered his bad mood, and once they were on their way down the hill, he sent out a questioning brush through the bond.

Geralt grunted as he let the mare pick her way down the sloping path. “Jarl Sága doesn’t like me, which was to be expected since I killed her father. She told me they’ve had three instances of the nightmares in the past two weeks, but didn’t deign to inform me of anything else.”

Regis sighed. “The locals seem adamant in letting things get worse before they want to accept help,” he observed, and Geralt laughed at that.

“You just described every ruler everywhere.”

They rode on in silence, until Geralt spoke again. “We haven’t yet had nightmares here. I wonder when they’ll hit us.”

Regis felt a chill run down his back. “I don’t much like the idea of me having nightmares.”

“You won’t hurt me.” Geralt’s voice was steady and certain, and the bond rushed to him in a wave of heat and love.

“Your trust means the world to me,” Regis said softly, “but there are certain dangers we must not court.”

“We’ll worry about that later,” Geralt said with a smile. “Is Dettlaff around yet?”

The lights of the village were growing larger as their horses brought them safely down, and Regis dared to close his eyes for a while as he reached out. The answer came after a short delay.

“He’s here.”

“Can you, uh, tell him to meet us at the inn?” Geralt asked. “I was offered a place to stay at Kaer Muire, but I told them to stick it.”

Regis lifted an eyebrow, and the witcher looked away, an unhappy scowl on his face. “Yes, well, not in those words, but my point stands. I don’t want to stay in the keep. And they seemed happy to get rid of me.”

Dettlaff was waiting for them when they made it to the inn. Guards were going around and lighting torches as the last of the daylight faded, and the black-haired vampire was drawing careful glances from them. He greeted Regis and Geralt with a small smile, however.

“Good to see you again,” he said when Regis dismounted. Regis saw his eyes turn to Geralt. “You’re angry about something.”

Dettlaff’s voice was calm but worried, and Regis recognized an undercurrent of confusion. It had been there already in Novigrad, and now it was a little stronger; Dettlaff was watching Geralt closely, as if trying to decipher something.

“The jarl’s not being of any help,” Geralt said with a grimace. “She seemed almost happy to send me away with no leads.”

“That seems almost counterproductive.” Dettlaff’s face was questioning in a way that Regis knew resulted from him not understanding a human custom. “Don’t the jarls want the curse broken?”

“Sure they do. But not by an outsider.” Geralt sighed, rolling his eyes and giving Dettlaff a wry smile. “Honor before common sense and all that, you know.”

“I don’t, but I’ll take your word for it,” Dettlaff said with a faint trace of laughter in his voice. That slight lilt of humor made Regis smile as he understood what was happening: his pack was building trust. Dettlaff was confused because Geralt was learning to trust him.

“Go ahead and get us something to eat,” the witcher said as he reached for Kumpel’s reigns. “I’ll see the horses stabled.”

Regis brushed against his mate’s mind before entering the warmth and light of the inn.

***

Geralt haggled with the stablehand for a few minutes before giving up and digging out silver pieces to get him to just shut up. His back was aching after riding up and down steep slopes all day, only to end up getting treated like an impostor in Kaer Muire.

Jarl Sága had actually been almost civil with him. She didn’t trust him by any measure of imagination, but the cold hostility was served by her advisors, whom Geralt distantly recognized from past. 

Sága had told Geralt the spectres had been seen only a few nights past in Holmstein and adjacent clusters of houses, and that the last bout of nightmares had driven one mentally unstable young man to hang himself. She had looked just as tired as Cerys, and Geralt had wondered what kind of horrors her dreams had brought her.

Her advisors had told Geralt straight away he was not needed nor wanted; Queen Cerys was acting out of childish sentimentality, and clan Drummond would solve the mystery by itself. Geralt had been dying to give them a piece of his mind, but he had settled of glowering at them and pulling details out of the seneschal. Getting out of the keep had been a relief; the level of antagonism in the big room had been suffocating. As he had breathed in cold air Geralt had wondered whether it had always been like that.

With the horses taken care of, Geralt stepped outside the circle of light the torches created around the inn. He walked a little way off along the shoreline, until most of the noise died away. He was feeling on edge, and the quiet darkness soothed him. 

He listened to the cold sea whispering against the rocky strand and looked up to the sky. The waxing, crescent moon stared back at him, expressionless and indifferent. Stars were like punctures of light in the black span, so unlike what he had seen in Novigrad.

Geralt had always loved Skellige. The people were nice enough once they learned to trust you, the nature was beautiful and lacked the nasty variety of insectoids Toussaint was full of, and winter nights like these were gorgeous like no other. Geralt spent several moments just looking up and soaking in the silence, deciding that after this he would say no to whatever contracts he would be offered.

He was—tired. He hadn’t noticed it in Novigrad, because there had always been people around him, but the closer they’d gotten to Skellige, the more weary he had started to feel. He had known he couldn’t say no to Cerys, but it had troubled him.

When would he be able to say no? When would he be able to really retire, and to whom would he direct the people asking for help?

A scream tore through the silence, and Geralt spun around. A rustle of light footsteps could be heard from somewhere up the hill rising behind his back, and a desperate sob was followed by a sound of someone stumbling and then falling, rolling down the slope. The hillside was steep, with small spruces growing on it, and the witcher heard the person hit the ground with a sickening crash. Geralt started running towards the dark figure that came to a stop about fifty meters from him. A creeping apprehension was washing over him, leaving his palms clammy inside the gauntlets.

The human-shaped figure lifted its head weakly as they drew in a labored breath. Geralt came to a stop, and right when his eyes met those of the young girl’s, his medallion started to shake and tremble against his chest.

The new silver sword flashed out of its scabbard like a pale ray. Geralt tried to see where the threat was coming from, and cursed his absent-mindedness; all his potions and oils were still in his saddlebags. The girl struggled to her feet and backed away, looking at him with wide, horrified eyes.

“Stay calm and very still,” Geralt hissed to her. “Something’s coming. Stay out of my way and warn me if anything tries to sneak up on me.”

The girl didn’t look like she understood a word. Her eyes were huge and pale, the black hair was escaping her messy braids, and her dress had torn all the way up to her waist. She couldn’t be much older than ten.

Geralt tried to call for Regis, tell him he might need help, when a sickly red glow started emanating from up the hill. He let his eyes track it, seeing something huge lumbering towards him. Its movement seemed clumsy and awkward, and Geralt allowed himself to hope for a while.

Nothing that moved so slowly could hope to outrun him, potions or no. He kept his eyes on the creature, putting himself between the girl and it, and then cursed as two more appeared.

For what felt like an eternity, Geralt watched the hulking, formless beasts amble towards them down the hill. The light they emanated made it impossible to see what they were, but the way his medallion was trashing was enough.

_ Danger. _

It happened too fast. Geralt’s eyes were starting to sting from the strain of focusing them by the sheer force of will, and when he saw the face of the vampire, it was too late. Amidst the glow Geralt registered a wide mouth full of jagged teeth and the tell-tale set of shoulders, on top of the smell of pus. Before his mind could name the being, it leaped.

Geralt swung his sword up in a wide arc, slicing the fleder’s head clean off. The lesser vampire landed a few meters off, blood spurting from its neck. Geralt felt a stab of confusion when he saw how dark the fleder’s skin was, and how it seemed to keep glowing, unlike anything he had ever seen. Then he heard the girl draw in a horrified breath, and he was drawn into a dance by the two other vampires.

He could mostly block and parry as he kept himself between the girl and the fleders. These two were also glowing and much darker than normal fleders; their jaw had the same set, but their eyes were wider and paler, and they were much, much stronger. Whenever one of them leaped, Geralt had to hazard a guess where they would land and then dive out of the way. All the time, he kept calling for Regis, wondering how far away they were from the village.

His sword pierced one vampire’s throat, and the monster let out an ear-splitting yowl as the rank smell of its blood punched Geralt’s nose. The witcher almost gagged as he drew his sword away, and it cost him half a second; the next sweep of claws hit his shoulder blade hard enough to send him flying, and when he landed, it was into the shallow, cold water.

Geralt scrambled back to his feet, shook the stinging salt water out from his eyes, and felt his heart drop. The remaining fleder was driving the girl against a stone wall, stalking forward in a way that the books described as the “imminent sign that the lesser vampire is preparing to launch its leaping attack.”

World rushed by in a blur or starlight and spraying salt water as he ran, his lungs burning and his ribs aching. Geralt brought his sword up to drive it through the vampire’s back, but just as he struck, it leapt. It was too fast to see, and for a split second the witcher felt sorrow smother him. He was late. He was late, and he’d kill the fleder, but it’d get to the child first.

A screech full of rage broke the spell. Geralt knew only a second had passed, but for a moment he felt like time had taken a huge leap forward, leaving him without memories of what had happened. He landed from the lunge he had taken, struggling to keep his balance on the uneven ground.

The fleder was slumping to the ground, and the red glow was fading fast. Geralt watched as it vomited a copious amount of blood, and as it fell, he saw a gaping wound in the middle of its abdomen. His brain struggled to understand what he saw, but then moonlight caught something sharp.

The girl’s hand was held in front of her, claws extended and dripping blood. Geralt watched her take heaving breaths, and when his eyes finally landed on the sanguine, shifted face, his head went very, very quiet.

A higher vampire.

Very slowly, the young vampire turned her black eyes to Geralt. The claws on her other hand extended as her body coiled, readying for another attack. A thought flickered through Geralt’s mind, whispering how he had never thought he’d die in the hands of a child, and then something slammed into him. His sword stayed in his hand until he hit the rock face head-first, and then everything went very dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hides under their bed*
> 
> Feed the gremlin. <3


	5. Hollow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since there was such a long break between chapters 3 and 4, here's the 5th one! I'm also just very impatient to share this story. :D This chapter was a joy and a pain to write, and more shit keeps hitting the fan.
> 
> Beta by the most awesome [Tsurai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsurai/pseuds/tsurai)!

Regis was a second behind Dettlaff. He felt his brother tear through the night to reach the battle in time, his own grey and blue mist trailing Dettlaff’s red. Fear was shredding all conscious thought, and only fragments of sense floated in the absolute silence of Regis’ mind.

_Geralt. Danger. Too fast, much too fast._

_Please, please let me be on time._

A presence rushed to him, all fangs and claws even on the mental plane; it breached Regis’ mind and made him stutter, just a little. The sheer anger in it was so strong it threw him off-balance. A dread as big as his own, engulfed by a fiery will to protect.

Regis had a moment to sense Geralt close, just before he saw him hit the rocky wall. The witcher went down like a ragdoll, and Regis materialized with a snarl, claws ready to break the person who was hurting his mate.

It was a mistake. He was too far away, because the next thing he saw was the dark grey cloud and a form taking shape as claws extended. The witcher was unconscious, and Regis’ focus narrowed down to a slit of visuals as he leaped.

A sickening crunch was the only sound he heard as he surged forwards. As it was, Regis understood Dettlaff had appeared between Geralt and the higher vampire only once he collided with them both, and all three of them went down in a heap of growls and claws.

The scent of his brother’s blood stung Regis’ nose as he twisted around and crushed his hand around the throat of the unfamiliar vampire. Their claws were stuck inside Dettlaff’s ribcage and they quickly realized they were overpowered, ceasing the struggle.

Dettlaff pulled free with a pained grunt, blood dripping on Regis as he struggled to contain himself. He drew in deep breaths, forcing himself to return closer to sentience; his mate was safe, he could hear a heartbeat and feel the bond, he couldn’t afford to descend into a rage.

Regis saw pale eyes staring up at him. With a jolt, he recognized the floral smell.

“You.”

Regis spoke the word at the same time with Dettlaff. He exchanged a quick glance with his brother, who was thankfully healing with normal speed.

“She is the higher vampire I met in Kaer Trolde,” Dettlaff said very quietly. His eyes were cold and angry, and Regis saw his teeth flash in the moonlight.

“Get off,” the woman choked. She didn’t dare to move, not with Regis’ claws so close to her throat, but she didn’t smell like fear. There was only rage and anxiety, and the distinct aroma of daisies and honeysuckle.

“No,” Regis growled. He stared at the woman, and saw what Dettlaff had meant; she was from his tribe, without a doubt. Her eyes were pale, but the set of her jaw and forehead were exactly like his.

“Who are you? Why did you attack the witcher?” he asked.

The woman hacked and tried to spit at him, and suddenly Dettlaff’s claws were millimeters from her eyes.

“Answer the question, or you won’t live to see another day.” His voice was deathly calm, but Regis felt the acrid hatred coursing through their shared bond. Only when the woman went slack with disbelief did his mind finally register what had happened. Dettlaff had thrown himself between Geralt and a higher vampire.

“He’s a human,” she croaked, eyes wide and angry. “He came at one of us with a sword in hand!”

There was a patter of light footsteps as someone ran to them, and a whole new sensation swept through Regis’ mind: a light brush of consciousness, too young to reign itself in wholly. Regis hadn’t felt such a mind in decades.

“Let Ivy go!” the child said, her voice breaking. Her claws had withdrawn, but her face remained in its true form as she stopped a few meters away, her hands fisted in the hem of her torn dress. She was crying, but unharmed. “Don’t hurt her, please.”

“Gina, get back—” the woman, Ivy, choked, but Regis glared her silent.

“Start talking. Now,” he hissed.

To his surprise, it was the fledgling that spoke. “I had wandered off, and the fleders attacked me,” she sniffed, wiping her face as tears continued to fall. Her mind was a jumble of distress and alarm. “The witcher came to my help, I swear. He didn’t try to harm me!”

Ivy hissed against the pressure of Regis’ hand. “Gina is my child. I saw the witcher standing in front of her with his silver sword drawn.” Regis felt her heart pumping frantically to compensate for the loss of oxygen.

“Don’t make me regret this,” he growled as he withdrew his hand and stood up.

Ivy scrambled to her feet and rubbed her throat. Gina flew to her, and the woman squatted down before grabbing the girl’s black hair in a hard grip.

“What did I tell you about wandering off?” she snarled. “It’s not safe, not with the nightmares!”

Gina sobbed, and Ivy’s hand loosened immediately. The girl was pulled into an embrace, and Ivy met Regis’ eyes again. She was still livid.

“I’m not the only one who owes an explanation,” she spat out.

Regis was jolted back to reality. He was by Geralt’s side in an instant, and the horror he had somehow forgotten in his rage was back with full force. Very carefully, his fingers felt for the pulse—fast but not alarmingly so—and then started brushing through Geralt’s hair.

His head had apparently hit the rock hard enough to make a wound and knock him out cold, but Regis couldn’t feel anything broken when he inspected the skull. The wound was bleeding, and Regis reached for bandages without much conscious thought. All the while, he tried to reign in the anger; someone had hurt his mate.

He tied the bandages in place and then pulled Geralt against his chest, breathing in his smell and trying to ride out the adrenaline. Geralt was alive, and he would be fine. Regis felt his throat grow tight at the thought of what could have happened.

“Who is he?”

Ivy was staring at them with the brown eyes Regis had seen in Kaer Muire earlier. Gina was hugging her waist and staring at Geralt with wide eyes, her human face slowly but surely returning.

“What is it to you?” Regis asked, not moving just yet. He needed to feel Geralt’s heartbeat against his chest to ascertain he was alive.

Ivy frowned, looking so confused her anger vanished for a moment.

“He is your _mate_.” The last word came out hoarse and disbelieving, equal parts consternation and dismay.

Dettlaff stepped between Regis and Ivy. His wound wasn’t bleeding any longer, but his clothes were soaked through, black and glistening in the cold night. Regis felt his brother’s anger again.

“Step back.”

Ivy stood her ground but stayed very still. “I need explanations. From you two, and from the witcher once he wakes up.” Her voice didn’t grow any warmer, and Regis saw she met Dettlaff’s eyes without a hint of fear.

“Due to your efforts, the witcher is in need of medical attention,” Dettlaff growled. His features didn’t shift back to their human guise, and Regis saw Ivy’s eyes flicker over them, understanding dawning on her face.

“Ammurun,” she whispered, frowning. Dettlaff flinched, just perceptively.

“I thought your kind left,” Ivy added, sounding almost thoughtful.

“You hurt someone from my pack,” Dettlaff answered, not acknowledging Ivy’s observation in any way.

Ivy’s eyes grew wide and angry as she took in the words; it was the same expression than when she’d understood Geralt was Regis’ mate.

Gina tugged at Ivy’s sleeve with a distressed look on her face. “ _Ativu_ , he is hurt. And he didn’t harm me, I swear.”

Ivy blew out an angry sigh. “I have a house. I will give you my hospitality under the Skellige elder.” Her voice remained angry, but Regis let himself relax at last. His face shifted back to human form as he lifted Geralt up in his arms.

“We accept.”

Dettlaff looked like he wanted to argue, but remained silent. Regis saw him squat down to pick up the fallen silver sword in silence. He avoided touching the blade as he wiped worst of the filth off before sheathing it.

Geralt made a small sound against Regis’ neck, twitching, and the bond came a bit more alive. Regis swallowed, reaching to soothe his mate before meeting Ivy’s eyes again.

“Lead the way.”

 

Ivy’s house rested in the nook of two cliff faces, a short distance from the main village. It was more of a cottage, really, but it looked well-kept and homey. There was a flickering light of a lantern in one of the windows, and smoke rose from the chimney into the silent night.

The door flew open as they approached, Ivy leading the way with Gina. At the threshold stood a boy of fifteen; or that was his appearance at any rate. Regis could tell he was one of their kind as well, although he hid his nature much more efficiently than Gina. He had the same black hair as she did, shorn short. He was dressed in simple clothes of an islander.

“Ivy,” he said in a quiet voice. “What happened? I sensed Gina—”

“She is fine, Aaron.” Ivy’s voice held a trace of warmth. “Get back inside.”

“Who are they?” the boy, Aaron asked. His eyes moved from Dettlaff to Regis, and finally to Geralt. “That is a human.”

“Aaron.” Ivy’s tone turned reproachful. “Would you use that kind of language everyday?”

Teenagers were the same in some senses no matter the species, Regis thought when the youngster rolled his eyes at the question.

“Of course I wouldn’t,” he said as he stepped aside to let them in. “But he is unconscious.” Then his eyes fixed on Geralt’s swords, moving from them to his armor and finally, when Regis lowered him onto a bunk Ivy indicated, to his medallion.

“A witcher,” Aaron breathed. He sounded equal parts fascinated and alarmed.

“They are our guests,” Ivy said as she stripped off the orange cloak she had been wearing. “For the time being. Where is Rowan?”

“Upstairs. They hid when they heard your steps.”

Ivy nodded, rubbing her face. “Please go see if Rowan is alright. Gina, you too.”

“But—”

“Now.”

The children disappeared up the narrow stairs, the girl sulking and the boy continuing to cast curious glances at Geralt. Regis heard their steps creak across floorboards, and then a muffled giggle as they found the third one. He wondered what the use of sending them away was; they would be able to hear everything they said anyway.

Ivy sat down at the table and nodded her head. Regis checked the bandage on Geralt’s head, and then joined her. After a while, Dettlaff sighed and sat down, too.

“So,” Ivy begun, “who are you?”

Regis felt Dettlaff’s heavy gaze on him, and it was familiar. In social situations, they usually reverted back to the old dynamic, where Regis did the talking and Dettlaff stood silent. Apparently it didn’t matter much that Ivy was a higher vampire.

“My name is Emiel Regis. This is Dettlaff van der Eretein, and the witcher is called Geralt of Rivia.”

Ivy arched a brow, but Regis stayed silent until she huffed.

“Ivy Ainsworth. The young ones are called Aaron, Gina, and Rowan, as you probably heard by now. We live here.”

Regis nodded, accepting the information. “Geralt was called to Skellige by Queen Cerys an Craite to solve the mystery of the nightmares.”

“And you accompanied him because he’s your…” Ivy didn’t seem like she wanted to finish the sentence, and a flash of protectiveness went through Regis.

“My mate,” he finished calmly, ignoring the way her eyes narrowed.

Dettlaff didn’t.

“Your opinion is not solicited,” he said quietly, surprising both Regis and Ivy. Before Regis managed to pull his thoughts together, Ivy snorted.

“I have to admit, I am curious why two of our kind would form a pack bond with a human, and a witcher at that. Feeling fed up with life?”

“He is no ordinary human—” Regis begun, but then cut himself off before he blurted out too much. It would be up to Geralt to divulge the information.

Dettlaff’s eyes could have been two pieces of ice. Even in his human form, he looked dangerous.

“He is a friend, and a good person. That is all you need to know.”

“Hm, I don’t really care much, one way or another,” Ivy said, meeting Dettlaff’s gaze calmly. “He did help Gina, so he can stay here until he is better, but that will be all.”

“Are all three of them your children?” Regis asked. Gina had called her _ativa_ , so it seemed unlikely.

“No,” Ivy said with a shake of her head and a slight smile. The expression softened her features, and Regis mirrored it automatically; the hostility was feeling tiresome now that it had been established there was no threat.

“I took the siblings in some seven years ago, that’s Aaron and Gina. Their parents had abandoned them, and they had a witcher contract on their heads because no one had taught them how to assimilate or hide properly. I tracked them down near Novigrad and we came here.” She glanced around. “Skellige is a decent place to live. To everyone here, I’m just a herbalist with three noisy brats and a missing husband.”

“And the third one?” Regis inquired.

Ivy actually chuckled. “Rowan? They are a different story. Last spring, they just appeared in the village. No one knew what to do with them, and once I figured out they were one of us, I offered to take them in, too.”

“‘Them?’” Regis echoed, and Ivy shrugged.

“Does it matter? They don’t speak much, but they made it very clear from the beginning that they dislike being called he or she. Aaron and Gina like them and look after them. They are my child as well.”

“I suppose it doesn’t matter,” Regis said with a nod.

“You said the witcher is trying to solve the mystery of the nightmares?” Ivy asked.

“He is a friend of the queen, and an individual with an impressive track record for breaking curses.”

“So it is a curse, then.” Ivy pressed a finger to her lips and looked thoughtful. “They affect our kind as well, just as badly as humans.”

“We’ve been here only for a few days,” Regis said. “We’ve yet to experience them.”

Ivy’s eyes turned dark as she looked away from him. “It is bad, Regis. The nightmares are becoming more intensive and coming more often. Everyone is on edge and all the jarls are looking for someone to blame.”

“The jarls are being of no help,” Dettlaff said. Unlike Regis, he didn’t seem like he would warm up to Ivy any time soon. Regis found this peculiar; usually Dettlaff was this wary only with humans.

Ivy shook her head. “No, I suppose they’re not. Pride is a fierce thing in Skellige.”

Dettlaff didn’t answer, but kept her eyes fixed on Ivy until she started to look a little uncomfortable and rose to her feet. She went to the hearth and picked up a tea kettle.

“Fancy a cup? I might as well show you some real hospitality.”

“Pardon me for inquiring, but are all of you living as humans?” Regis asked as he nodded his thanks. He was feeling curious about Ivy and her family. Everything in the cottage looked like it was the residence of a human family, and Ivy’s perfume had masked her true scent even from him.

“We are,” Ivy told him as she poured water into the kettle and then settled it in the middle of the flames. “It’s easier, and the children need to learn how if they want to survive.”

She turned around and folded her arms, looking all three of her guests over. “And you?”

“I’ve lived among humans for a long time,” Regis said. “I don’t really keep in touch with my tribe, if I can help it.”

Ivy chuckled at that, and something told Regis she didn’t find his habit odd at all. It was a refreshing feeling.

“And how does a witcher fit into that?” Ivy continued, seemingly coming to the conclusion that Dettlaff wasn’t going to participate in the conversation.

Regis blew out a breath. “I don’t know how much he wants me to tell you, but suffice it to say I joined him on an expedition years ago when we first met. We were separated, and then found each other again.”

“But how does a human become a mate to a higher vampire?” Ivy asked, her eyes disbelieving. It seemed like she wouldn’t drop the subject before getting a proper answer.

Regis looked at Geralt, and in his bones he felt the absolute certainty that Geralt was his. He knew what he wanted to say, but hesitated; how could he begin to describe the bond they shared to an outsider?

“Witchers aren’t like other humans, as you surely know,” he finally said, picking his words carefully. “Geralt is unique in every way, and I trust him with my life. I did even before we—” he faltered, uncharacteristically feeling at a loss of words.

A silence followed. Finally Ivy picked the kettle up and poured steaming water into three cups. She kept looking at Regis, but when no further explanation followed, she sighed.

“It’s not my business, I know. I just need to make sure my children are safe.”

“I can give you my word they are,” Regis told her right away. Ivy glanced at Geralt’s prone form with a faint frown, but settled back into her chair.

“What made you decide to live among humans, Regis?” she asked.

Dettlaff shifted in his seat, not touching his tea. Regis cleared his throat, suddenly feeling awkward. Ivy looked at him closely, and then smiled at him; her smile was a familiar one with pursed lips.

“Ah. Another thing that is none of my business,” she remarked dryly, but with a hint of humor in her tone.

“I was a reckless youth,” Regis said in a rush, feeling how his neck got a touch warmer under his collar. He’d never actually had to explain this to another vampire. “When I decided I could be…better, I became a barber-surgeon.”

“And then ended up befriending a witcher,” Ivy finished for him, her eyes amused.

“That is the long and short of it, yes,” Regis said with a huff of laughter. He decided that he would give Ivy a chance; she seemed intelligent and kind, even if she couldn’t seem to understand Regis’ bond with Geralt.

“We should get some rest,” Ivy finally said. “I will go upstairs to put my eavesdropping children to bed. You may stay here. I wish to speak with the witcher in the morning.”

Regis heard a muffled giggle and a thump from above, and suppressed a smile.

“Very well.”

“I won’t stay,” Dettlaff said as he got to his feet. His face was calm and closed off. Regis met his eyes, and his brother reached back for him through the bond, assurance that he wouldn’t go far.

Ivy shrugged. “Your choice.” Regis saw she was ready to be rid of Dettlaff as soon as possible, and wondered what caused his brother to feel such suspicion towards her. Dettlaff had mentioned the odd feeling that had pulled him to Skellige, and how it had seemed to originate from Ivy. They would need to discuss it in private.

Ivy nodded to Regis and then ascended the stairs. Regis turned to Dettlaff, and his brother came to him, allowing Regis to press closer for a moment. Regis rested his head on Dettlaff’s shoulder for a moment and heaved a sigh.

“This is getting complicated. We need to form some plans tomorrow.”

Dettlaff squeezed his shoulder before withdrawing and looking Regis in the eyes. “Please be careful,” he murmured. “I don’t trust her.”

“I know,” Regis said gently. “Come see us tomorrow.”

Dettlaff gave him a tight smile before dissolving into mist and vanishing. Regis felt his presence wane, and then he made his own way to the bunk. He stripped off his heavier layers and sat down next to Geralt.

The witcher was sleeping, so far from consciousness the bond was imitating the deep waves of dreaming. Regis brushed against it, and it reached back for him; the feeling of safety was like a sip of hot tea. Regis let his fingers brush against Geralt’s cheek. He didn’t feel like sleeping.

***

_There was a pulsating pain that made his vision blurry. He was stumbling through a forest he didn’t recognize. There was wet snow up to his knees, and abruptly he realized he was barefoot; at that, the cold registered. He started to shiver._

_The trees were black and wet, and a weird mist hung among them. There was a light coming from somewhere and nowhere, making it hard to assess distances. He stopped moving and leaned on a trunk, flexing his numb toes and feeling at a loss. His head was hurting, and he couldn’t remember how he’d gotten here._

_Drops of water were falling from the trees, and the whole forest seemed to whisper around him, alive but unwilling to communicate with him. He continued onwards, but when he looked back he saw he wasn’t leaving any tracks._

_“They won’t find me,” he said to himself. The sound was swallowed by a gust of wind that made more droplets hit the wet snow, and the forest seemed to sigh; a moist breath washed through the trees and was gone as soon as it begun._

_The longer he walked, the more the cold got to him. He was getting tired, and the pain in his head wouldn’t go away, making it difficult to focus on anything for longer than a second. He was feeling alone, and something in that feeling rankled him; he shouldn’t be alone. Had he lost something? Where was he supposed to go?_

_Suddenly a shape came into view. It was a man, standing with his back to him. He stumbled towards the figure, and when he got closer he realized he knew who it was. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out; he had forgotten the name._

_Dread gripped his stomach, hard. He struggled to get the name out, but nothing came. He must’ve made a sound, because the man turned around and looked at him with black eyes. He was dressed in simple clothes that looked familiar._

_“I won’t find you,” the man said in a quiet, gentle voice._

_His fingers and toes were numb with the cold, and his clothes were wet, but nothing froze him in place like that voice. He couldn’t move, and he abandoned the fight to remember the name he’d let slip out of his mind._

_“You’re going away, and I’m not following, and that’s the way it needs to be.”_

_His knees gave out, and he gasped for air. He didn’t know who the man was, he didn’t look familiar anymore. Something cold and damp was welling up in his chest, almost distracting him from the pain in his head, and the creeping horror made thinking impossible._

_A sob escaped his lips, followed by another. Even the tears that fell were cool and joined the falling water in the whispering chorus of the forest._

_“I’m going, and you’re not coming with me. I won’t have you.”_

_He broke down, and the snow welcomed him like a soggy, icy blanket. All strength he’d once had was gone, and there was only an echoing, empty space inside him. His chest heaved in panicked, rasping breaths, but there wasn’t enough air in the whole world to save him from drowning into this._

_The man cast a last look at him and then turned away. He took a few steps before looking back. He was smiling a little._

_“You can’t understand. You never did.”_

_The steps vanished into the sound of the wet wind and his vision blurred as more snow fell on him, burying him alive._

 

Geralt woke with a ragged gasp. His body flung itself upright violently, adrenaline painting everything faintly red. He made a desperate scramble towards—something, anything, and his feet tangled into the blanket that had covered him. He crashed onto the hard wooden floor with a muffled yelp, and a bolt of pain shot through his head.

Then there were hands holding onto him, and a rush of something frantic inside his head. A soft voice was calling to him, and for a long second his brain couldn’t comprehend what he was seeing and feeling.

Then he blinked, and Regis’ face swam into view. Geralt realized he was lying on the floor, Regis straddling his chest and holding him down. His eyes were wide and alarmed, and the bond was stuttering with something Geralt couldn’t name.

“Geralt?” Regis whispered. His grip on the witcher’s wrists loosened, and a hand came to cup Geralt’s cheek, and Regis moved to kneel on the floor next to him as he sat up. At the touch Geralt realized his cheeks were wet. He drew in a breath, and it punched through him, dragging a sob deep from his chest.

Something returned, an echo from the dream. It slammed into his mind, and Geralt’s chest heaved again; something was hovering at the brink of a vast chasm, waiting for the tiniest nudge to fall and shatter.

“Geralt, love,” Regis said again. His face was screwed up with fear. “Talk to me. I’m here.”

That something fell and broke. No sounds came, but suddenly Geralt was doubled over and grief was pouring out of him. Regis drew in a breath and dragged him closer, holding him tight as he cried and cried, the same horror sinking its claws ever deeper.

“Don’t leave,” Geralt gasped. “Please don’t leave me.” He didn’t know where the words came from, but at their heels came the cold from the nightmare, and he started to shake. He felt like he was coming apart at the seams, even with Regis holding him so tight he had trouble breathing.

“I’m here, love, I’m not going anywhere,” Regis whispered, pressing kisses where he could reach and rocking him gently. “I’m here. It’s alright. It was a nightmare.”

Geralt didn’t know how long they stayed there. Regis kept murmuring to him, and he clung onto the vampire like his life depended on it.

When he finally managed to draw in a breath that felt like it wouldn’t drown him, Geralt felt his body go slack with exhaustion. Regis didn’t move, his arms stayed around Geralt and his nose remained pressed against his hair. Geralt reached a hand to him, and the vampire took it immediately. Geralt drew in deep breaths, and slowly his erratic pulse started to calm down.

Regis drew back a little, and Geralt turned to face him. Suddenly he was feeling like he needed to look at Regis to know he was really there.

“What happened?” he asked. His throat felt raw and his head was hurting like a bitch. He carefully felt it, and his fingers brushed against a wad of bandages.

Regis helped him back to the bunk he had been laying on. Geralt looked around and saw they were in a small cottage that smelled of tea and herbs. The room was dark, only a few embers were glowing in the hearth on the other side of the room.

“You had a nightmare,” Regis told him once they were arranged comfortably. His hands reached to fix the bandages, and Geralt felt some of the tension leak out at the contact.

“You started thrashing, and I tried to wake you up,” the vampire added. He kept looking at Geralt with wide eyes. Geralt hugged him closer, trying to make sense of what had happened.

Regis held him in silence for a long while. The bond was glowing inside Geralt’s head, driving back the damp cold that clung to him.

“You left me,” Geralt finally muttered. He hated how small his voice was, or how even saying the words seemed to drag the chill back, making him want to curl up and scream until it went away. It felt like a shapeless, hovering thing, smudging all light like in the dream.

Regis drew in a breath. The bond flared, and it was the only warning Geralt got before Regis kissed him hard. His sure hands cradled Geralt’s head carefully, but there was nothing hesitant about the kiss; Regis kept going until Geralt was feeling light-headed. When the vampire pulled back, his face was fiercely protective.

“I’m here. I’m not leaving.”

“I know. I know,” Geralt said, resting his head against Regis’ shoulder and breathing in his scent. His eyes slipped closed, and he tried to sink into the bond; he wanted to submerge himself into that heat to drive away the remnants of the nightmare.

He started to drift off again, and was distantly aware of Regis moving them down and hugging him against his chest. The rest of the night passed without nightmares.

 

When Geralt woke, it was to the pale light of mid-morning sun, and to a pair of curious, dark eyes watching him from the other side of the room. The girl he had saved yesterday—who had turned out to be a vampire, if he wasn’t grossly mistaken—was watching him without a hint of fear. She was sitting at the table with three other people.

Geralt sat up and grimaced as his head throbbed. Regis appeared at his side and steadied him by the shoulder.

“Good morning.”

“Morning,” Geralt said, trying to parse where he was and who were the four people currently staring at him. “Where are we?”

He had been so disoriented during the night it hadn’t occurred to ask Regis what had happened. His last memory was getting knocked off his feet.

“This is my home,” the woman who had been sitting at the table said as she stood up and approached him. She was much shorter than he or Regis, with a pretty round face and some freckles. Her dark hair was in a simple braid, and she looked distantly familiar.

“My name is Ivy. I’m sorry I ran you down yesterday,” she continued. Geralt frowned. He couldn’t connect the dots between what felt like a hurricane slamming him against the rock wall and the small woman standing before him.

“She is one of my kind,” Regis said, smiling. A reassuring brush accompanied the words, and Geralt felt his eyes widen.

“You’re a…” he begun, and Ivy nodded.

“A higher vampire, yes. Regis assured me you can be trusted to keep my secret.” She turned around to the girl who was still looking at Geralt like he was the most fascinating thing she’d ever witnessed. “This is Gina, the one you saved yesterday.”

Gina bit her lip and gave him a shy wave, and Geralt answered in kind without thinking.

Ivy gestured towards a tall, lanky boy sitting next to Gina, and to a third child, whose gender Geralt couldn’t tell by appearance. They had red hair and pale skin, and were looking out of the small window as they chewed on a piece of bread.

“Here’s Aaron, and the ginger’s Rowan.” Ivy spread her hands. “We live here, among humans.”

“You’re the herbalist of Holmstein,” Geralt said as it finally clicked. He’d seen Ivy in passing when he’d visited the village on his search for Ciri. They hadn’t spoken, then.

“Aye,” Ivy said. “And I’d appreciate if you kept your mouth shut about our true nature. We’re not causing any trouble.”

“Not my business,” Geralt grunted as he sat up straighter. Regis sat down next to him.

“Ivy, you said you wanted to ask Geralt some questions,” he said in placating tones.

Ivy crossed her arms. She didn’t look angry, per se, but there was something hard in her eyes that told Geralt she didn’t like having him in her home.

“What happened?” she asked.

Gina opened her mouth, and Ivy glared at her. “Not you, brat, we already heard your version. I want to hear what the witcher has to say.”

The girl seemed to deflate as she chewed on her lip. The boy, Aaron, flashed her a mocking smile. He had the same black hair as Gina, and something told Geralt they might be siblings.

“I heard someone running when I was walking on the shore,” Geralt begun, digging through his memories. “The girl, Gina, stumbled and fell down the slope, and I went to see if she was hurt. And then the fleders attacked.”

He pursed his lips, thinking about the fight. “They weren’t normal ones. Their skin was darker and they were glowing.”

“Glowing?” Regis asked. He sounded astonished.

“Yeah, this odd red light,” Geralt said. “Never seen a vampire like that before. They were really strong, too.”

Ivy didn’t move, or make any indication she was convinced about anything he said.

“I managed to kill two of them, but the third one got to Gina. I thought I had been too late, but she shifted and killed the third one by herself.”

“Bullshit.” It was Aaron, who was now staring at Gina with horrified eyes.

Gina lifted her chin and looked mulish. “I did, too!”

“No way you’d kill a protofleder you skinny little—”

“Aaron, shut up!” Ivy growled, and the boy snapped his mouth shut. Gina looked at him and grinned, forgetting to hide her fangs. She really couldn’t be much older than ten.

“What’s a protofleder?” Geralt asked. Ivy sent a furious glare at Aaron, who slunk lower on his chair. Then she looked at Regis, as if asking his opinion.

Geralt felt at a loss; when had Ivy and Regis had time to form trust like that?

Regis cleared his throat. “Protofleder is an ancestor of the present-day lesser vampire fleder. It is believed they have remained unchanged since the Conjunction.”

Geralt stared at him. “And you thought to mention this only now?” he asked indignantly. “Where the fuck did those come from? I’ve never seen one before.”

Regis looked uncomfortable, and Geralt felt him withdraw from the bond. It left him feeling lonely, and not only because he was slowly grasping he was surrounded by five higher vampires, only one of whom he could trust.

“Protofleders are—” Regis begun, but Ivy cut him off.

“Regis, I acknowledge what you told me about the witcher, but this is a secret of our people,” she hissed. Her shoulders were stiff and she kept staring at Geralt. “This doesn’t concern only you.”

The way she said it, like Regis had been about to do something unforgivable, made Geralt suddenly feel hollow. Of course he had always known Regis was a vampire, a whole other species from him, but never before had it been accentuated like this; the bond, and the way he and Regis lived had made him forget that for the most part, and now he was reminded of it in a very unpleasant way.

“I’m not going to go babble your secrets to normal humans,” Geralt snarled to take his mind off his thoughts. “I just need to know what is going on, so I can break the curse.”

“Is there nothing that you humans hold sacred?” Ivy asked, taking a step closer and then clearly forcing herself to stop. “Something you can’t bear to let slip through your fingers?”

Geralt met her eyes, not giving an inch. “I’m not a human.”

“You are, at your core,” Ivy retorted. Her eyes flashed silver before she forced he disguise back. “We live in a hostile world that doesn’t want us, with no way to go back to our own. Some of us choose to behave like barbarians, but some choose to live among humans, conceal our true nature day in and day out, and even respect you. Can’t you extend the same courtesy to us?” she whispered, clearly furious but reigning her anger in with enormous effort.

Something in her words struck a raw place inside Geralt, but he refused to examine that at the moment. He glared at Ivy and then looked away and shrugged. His head was throbbing.

“If this turns out to be a vampire thing, you can be sure I’ll keep digging until I’ve shed light to everything,” he spat out. Ivy’s expression turned dark and threatening.

Regis laid a hand on his arm and shook his head, and Geralt sighed, forcing his temper down. He rubbed a hand down his face, deciding to change the subject.

Ivy walked to a window and looked out. The red-haired child, Rowan, reached for her hand, and she took theirs, rubbing her thumb across the pale knuckles.

“The jarl didn’t want to help you, yes?” Ivy asked tersely.

Geralt’s eyes snapped back up. He had been ready to be thrown out.

“No,” he said. “They didn’t give me much but the dates when the nightmares started.”

Ivy drew in a breath and released it slowly, and the anger faded a bit. She met Geralt’s gaze with a firm look in her eyes.

“You need to see what kind of things people are dreaming of. There is a pattern that will help you.”

“How do you know that?” Geralt asked. He forgot to remain angry.

“Because the nightmares affect us too,” Ivy said quietly. “And I’ve noticed they follow the same path every time.”

“But how can you tell it’s the same for everyone?” Geralt pressed. The first thread of hope was taking root inside of him, the feeling of getting a solid lead.

Ivy’s face closed off, and the hope dampened.

“That is all I will say to you.”

“The fuck,” Geralt growled. Something about the woman was making the hair at the back of his neck stand up, as if he was in the presence of an enemy. “Why did you take me in if you don’t want to help?”

“It was not because of you,” Ivy said as she stroked Rowan’s hair. Her expression was cold. “I did it for Regis, and even Dettlaff. Our kind has a codex, and we behave according to it.”

“And that means what, exactly?”

“You really know nothing about the man you call your _mate_ ,” Ivy hissed. “Did it not occur to ask him why we don’t fight each other, even in case of despising each other? Why some of us choose to live among humans?”

Geralt opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Ivy looked away in dismissal. “You’ve worn out your welcome, witcher. Get out of my home.”

“With pleasure,” Geralt snarled. He scooped up his armor and swords from the floor and marched out, not caring about the cold that bit into him, or the way Regis’ eyes widened in alarm.

Geralt tugged on his clothes and weapons in the snow, seething. His head kept hurting and he was feeling like absolute shit.

Inside, he heard Regis collect his things and murmur an apology.

“I’m sorry, he didn’t mean—”

“He meant every word, and you know it.”

“He’s in pain—”

“Regis, I am not cross with you.”

Geralt heard Regis buckle his boots in silence, and one of the children sliding out of their chair and walking to Regis.

“Will you come back?” a shy voice asked. Gina.

“Hopefully. But we have work to do.”

“You’re nice, and I liked the witcher.”

“Gina, get back upstairs.” Ivy’s voice was angry again.

“Just because you don’t like humans doesn’t mean I can’t—”

“Gina! Now.”

There was a rustle as Regis got to his feet, but just before he reached the door, Ivy spoke again.

“Regis, I know we don’t know each other, but hear me out. Do you remember the precept?”

“You know I do. It’s not something one forgets.”

“Then you know I’m obligated to warn you.”

“About what?”

“Your choices.”

“If this is about Geralt—”

“About him, and much more, as you very well know.”

“I won’t go through with this discussion again, Ivy.” Regis’ voice had a hint of steel in it.

“I know.” Ivy’s voice suddenly lost the strength, and without it she sounded exhausted. “But you’re my tribe, and we’re so few.”

“I’ll come back,” Regis told her in a gentler tone after a short silence. “We can talk then.”

Then the door opened, and the vampire stepped out. Geralt tried to hide he had been eavesdropping, but Regis looked at him like he knew. He smiled to Geralt, and they set off towards the village.

Geralt felt that hollow pit grow a bit larger with every step. He was feeling miserable, and not only because he’d managed to antagonise the only person who’d offered him a good lead on the curse. He felt like a pathetic excuse of a partner, because the more he thought about it, the more he realized he didn’t really know shit about vampire customs.

It had been easy to slip into the life with Regis, to accept the bond and love him, but how much had Geralt really cared about the big things? Had he just been coasting along, taking advantage of the good bits and leaving Regis to share his life with someone who wasn’t bothered to learn even the basics of his people and culture?

A dull pain was digging deep inside of him, and for a while Geralt felt the same exhaustion again. It was an unfamiliar feeling, wanting to abandon the job and go home.

But would there be a home for him, if he somehow managed to drive Regis away?

“Regis,” Geralt said just before they reached the village. “Wait a minute.”

The vampire stopped, and when he saw the expression Geralt wore, his eyes widened. Before Geralt registered anything, Regis was in his space, and the bond was alight inside him with love and worry.

“Geralt, I know you heard what she said, but I swear—”

“Regis,” Geralt interrupted him. “Listen to me. Do you feel like you can’t be yourself with me?”

Regis fell silent and stared at him. His black eyes were wide and so damn sad, and Geralt felt the damp cold of his nightmare grip him again.

He needed to do better. Losing Regis would end him.

“Geralt.” Regis’ voice was suddenly rough. He swallowed heavily. “You’re my mate.”

Geralt hated, hated that it came out like a question, and when Regis stepped closer and cupped his face he leaned into the contact.

“I’m not leaving,” Regis whispered. He blinked rapidly as he looked down. “You’re my _home_. I’ve made my choices, and you’re the most important of them.”

Geralt pulled him into a hug, and Regis tucked his face against his neck. They fit together so well, Regis’ slight body against Geralt’s bulk, his dark, messy hair tickling Geralt’s nose when he buried his face in it.

Geralt drew in a breath, smelling the herbs and Regis, and he knew he couldn’t bear to lose this; his heart couldn’t handle losing anything more.

“It’s just— What Ivy said. I really don’t know that much about your people,” Geralt finally muttered.

Regis drew back. His eyes were kind and tired.

“I don’t live with my people any more,” he said. “I’m with you, and I’m sorry she said those things. Please know I don’t feel that way.”

The cold wasn’t letting him go, but Geralt pressed a kiss into Regis’ hair anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos mean so much to me, thank you for everyone who's coming along for this wild ride. =w= <3<3


	6. Soothsaying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you thank you thank you for all comments. <3 I'm seriously blown away by the kind words people offer about this fic.
> 
> Beta by [Tsurai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsurai/pseuds/tsurai)!

Dettlaff met them at the harbor. He looked tired, if it was possible to describe a higher vampire in human terms. His skin was a bit paler than usually, and his posture suggested a night of not much rest.

“Had nightmares too?” Geralt asked. He knew it was an intimate question, but something about the morning was making him want to keep his pack closer. He and Dettlaff weren’t close in the traditional sense of the word, but they had saved each other enough times to have a semblance of trust.

“Yes.” Dettlaff’s voice was rough. “I was suspicious whether the curse would afflict our kind as well, but it does.”

“You okay?” Geralt asked. Regis looked at him with the same expression he’d worn the previous evening, something between surprise and happiness.

“I will be,” Dettlaff assured him with a faint smile. “Did you learn anything?”

“Ivy and her family are living among the humans here,” Regis said quietly. “She said there is a pattern to the nightmares. She and Geralt…did not get along very well, but I’m thinking she could be of help.”

There was a quick brush of what Geralt wanted to call amusement coming from Dettlaff, which the vampire pulled back almost instantly. Recognizing the feeling for what it was made Geralt feel marginally better.

“I was thinking of talking to the people here in Holmstein to figure out what the pattern is,” Geralt told them. “See if I can find anything useful.”

Regis looked down, and Geralt didn’t need the bond to tell him Regis was conflicted and maybe even embarrassed.

“You want to go back to Ivy and talk to her,” Geralt said. He tried to keep his voice neutral, but Regis’ face immediately turned guilty.

“No— I mean, yes, but I would much rather come with you,” he said. His eyes were pained, and the bond stuttered inside Geralt’s head. He tried to push against the nervousness in it.

“Regis, you can go,” he said. “I can manage on my own.”

“I could accompany you,” Dettlaff said. He was looking at them both closely.

“See?” Geralt asked, smiling to Regis and doing his best to keep his tone light. “It’s all fine.”

Regis bit his lip as he pulled in on himself. Geralt wanted to wrap him in a hug, but because they were in a public place, all he could do was to shove all his love into the bond.

It seemed to work; Regis’ shoulders relaxed a little, and he finally met Geralt’s eyes.

“Are you certain?”

“Yes,” Geralt said, his own mood lifting a bit. “Let’s meet when it gets dark and compare notes?”

“Certainly.” Regis looked to Dettlaff, and Geralt felt something pass through their bond as well. Dettlaff looked thoughtful when they waved Regis goodbye.

Once Regis disappeared behind a curve on the road, Geralt turned to Dettlaff. “You don’t have to stick with me, if you have better things to do.”

Dettlaff’s mouth twitched. “I do know Regis tends to fret, but I wasn’t trying to just dissuade his worries. I’d like to accompany you.”

“Sure,” Geralt said with a shrug. He reached to adjust his sword belts as he thought, trying to decide where he should begin his search. They walked towards the harbor in silence. Then he looked back at Dettlaff and frowned as he realized the vampire was wearing a different set of clothing than previously. His soft green coat has been replaced by a dark grey winter tunic and a heavy cloak.

“What happened yesterday? Ivy knocked me out, and to be honest I woke up expecting a lot more injuries than just a single head wound.”

Dettlaff looked down as he fiddled with his gloves. Then he met Geralt’s eye.

“I was just in time to prevent Ivy from running you through with her claws. She hit me instead.”

“She was going in for a kill,” Geralt said, more to himself than to Dettlaff. A flash of memory showed him Regis coming between Dettlaff and himself, and claws tearing through his chest. Dettlaff apparently felt the echo clearly enough to be able to tell what Geralt was thinking, because his look turned sheepish.

“You are pack,” he said. “If Regis lost you, it would hurt him badly. And…” he trailed off, and spent a moment gazing towards the shore and the pale glitter of sunlight on the waves. Then he sighed.

“You are no longer my pack just by way of Regis,” he said softly, and it came out like a confession. Geralt waited, content to let Dettlaff sort his thoughts at his own pace. “Something happened to you when we were in Novigrad, and after that you have been inside my head much like Regis. I’m finding it easier to trust you.”

 _And it is confusing me, but I think it would be impolite to say so,_ Geralt mentally translated the jumble of feelings that flickered through the bond right then. He smiled, and Dettlaff tilted his head in question.

“Regis and I went to this lab I found,” Geralt said. They had arrived at the harbor and stopped walking, and he sat down on a barrel to look towards the sea. Sun was climbing higher, and it seemed the day would be beautiful and serene. Dettlaff stood close and started to look curious.

“A scientist had been researching witcher mutations, and he’d found a way to augment them. I theorized that by adding Regis’ blood to the albumen base that is used in the process, I’d gain resilience towards the magic we found in the Temple Isle caverns.”

Dettlaff’s eyes widened a little as he took in the words. He shuffled his feet.

“You mutated your body further with Regis’ blood,” he said, half a question that sounded like it mostly served to put the wonder into words.

“Yeah,” Geralt said. A smile tugged at his lips. “Our bond got stronger, and the Rot didn’t affect me that much. And as you said, after that I felt you, too.”

“That explains your teeth,” Dettlaff said with an air of understanding, and Geralt grimaced. A trace of laughter rippled across his mind, and he knew the vampire had read his irritation correctly.

“Let’s not talk about that,” Geralt scowled, and Dettlaff nodded, hiding his smile. Then his face turned serious again.

“Thank you for telling me. I know our acquaintance started badly, and I must confess I spent a long while thinking Regis was making a stupid, risky mistake by forging a bond with you.” He held up a hand when Geralt opened his mouth.

“I don’t think so anymore.” He smiled faintly, and this time his eyes turned calm and gentle. Geralt could suddenly tell that this was the person that Regis had told him about, back in Toussaint when he had been trying to explain why Dettlaff wasn’t evil; this was the person who had saved Regis just because he wanted to, and nursed him back to health with infinite patience.

Geralt remembered the anguished rage he’d seen on Dettlaff when Syanna’s betrayal had come to light, and how the vampire had lashed out by drowning Beauclair in blood; it seemed so at odds with the person standing in front of him. He had been thinking about it ever since they had started to work together, but there had never been a good time to ask. And now he trusted Dettlaff, but the past was still hanging between them like a dark cloud, making _trusting_ that trust difficult.

“I’m learning to trust you, and now I know you’re the best possible mate for Regis.” Dettlaff’s words made Geralt’s neck feel hot, and the witcher looked away as he tried to fight down his embarrassment.

“Thanks, I think,” Geralt muttered. He knew he’d have to find the time and courage to ask what the hell had made Dettlaff attack the whole of Beauclair.

Dettlaff caught his gaze and held it, looking severe. “Not just anyone would go through all that for a loved one. You keep taking risks for Regis and everyone you hold dear.”

Now Geralt was definitely blushing, so he cleared his throat as he hopped down and begun to walk again. Dettlaff seemed to take the hint and followed him in silence.

 

They spent the morning talking to the people in the village. Unlike Regis, who got along with humans and wasn’t hesitant to talk to them, Dettlaff stayed mostly back as Geralt chatted, watching surreptitiously. It wasn’t until Geralt’s stomach informed him that it was time for lunch that he asked about it.

“You don’t like humans, do you?” he asked Dettlaff as they sat down at the inn and ordered food.

Dettlaff made a faint, noncommittal noise. “I am finding it easier to interact with humans the longer I spend time with you and your friends and family. But I was thinking it would be more fruitful for me to observe how the people you talk with react.”

“Well, found out anything?” Geralt felt a curious brush of joy at the confession that Dettlaff was warming up to his friends.

“Most of them spoke the truth. The nightmares affect everyone, and they often come in clusters of two or three nights in a row before abating for a short while.”

“Yeah, that we knew already,” Geralt sighed. He begun to eat, and Dettlaff fell into a thoughtful silence.

“They are all hurting because of the nightmares,” Dettlaff said after a while, his voice dropping low. “The air around them is rippling with the pain they feel. There’s something very…desolate about the feeling.”

Geralt felt the cold again, and he tried to push it away, but Dettlaff’s words made sense; that was exactly the feeling that he’d had. For a second, he wondered whether Dettlaff was extrapolating from his own nightmares.

“So the nightmares have a pattern that forces people to live through something that hurts them badly?” Geralt said. Before Dettlaff answered, the inn door opened, and Regis stepped in.

Seeing him made Geralt relax instantly, and Regis met his eyes with a smile. He slipped next to him on the long bench, close enough to brush against Geralt.

“Hello. How is the search going?”

Dettlaff lifted a shoulder in a surprisingly human gesture. “We’ve found out the nightmares are truly hurting people, but not much else.”

Regis hummed. He pressed a leg against Geralt’s shin under the table, and the contact soothed the witcher further.

“We might visit an old lady. A soothsayer. Our new friend let it slip that she might know more about local myths and legends.”

Geralt’s mouth twisted downwards at the words. “So Ivy was happy to tell you more about the curse?” he asked, trying not to sound too bitter and failing miserably.

Regis watched him with a faint smile, and the bond rippled with a comforting rush.

“As I said, she let it slip. I’m suspecting one of her children is dead-bent on meeting you again, because it was mostly her doing.” He turned to look at Dettlaff. “Ivy is secretive, but she is not malicious. I’m hoping you will give her a chance to prove herself an ally.”

Geralt looked at his half-eaten food, his head echoing emptily. He wanted to believe Regis, but Ivy’s words from the morning seemed to drip through it all like something oily and smudging. He felt Dettlaff’s gaze on himself, and when he looked up, Regis was peering at them both curiously.

“I’m making no promises,” Dettlaff told Regis. “I dislike her attitude towards your bond.”

Which was very close to what he had said earlier about their pack dynamic shifting, and both Geralt and Regis understood the weight of the words. A silence followed, and when Geralt stopped resisting it, the bond ran through him with unnamed sensations that comforted him a lot more than words.

“So, a soothsayer?” Geralt finally asked. “Is she a local?”

Regis nodded. “She lives a short distance away from Holmstein. Helps with midwifery as well as predicts the future. Ivy told me she is nearly blind, but still lives by herself.”

“Sounds like a true Skelliger,” Geralt snorted. “I don’t usually put much weight on village fortunetellers’ words.”

“Still, it’s worth inspecting,” Regis insisted. Geralt could tell the vampire was trying to mediate the conflict between him and Ivy, and it felt both irritating and endearing. He sighed, acquiescing without further complaints, and Regis gave him a small, private smile. Geralt answered in kind, hoping that this job would be over soon.

He wanted to go home.

***

Dettlaff walked behind Geralt and Regis as they made their way out of the village. The day was bright and unusually warm. Snow was slipping down from the branches around them, and the forest seemed to be full of life as squirrels and birds flitted between the trees. Dettlaff watched the small animals and the white snow, but most of all he watched the pair walking in front of him.

Once Regis had been sure they were alone, he had taken Geralt’s hand. The witcher had looked surprised, and then his shoulders had relaxed. A small smile had appeared on Regis’ face, and seeing it made Dettlaff feel happy for them. Geralt was brash and stubborn and a _human_ , and yet he made Regis indescribably happy. There was always a note of melancholy in his brother, but when Regis was with Geralt, it sang with some hope of a permanent home.

When the tiny hut came into view, Geralt and Regis dropped the contact, and the witcher took  lead. A short search revealed a hunched figure sitting against the wall with her eyes closed.

“Here come visitors,” the old woman said in a clear voice. Her long, dark grey hair was in two braids, and she wore a thick, woollen dress. An apron with colorful embroidery sat on top of it.

“Greetings,” Geralt said gruffly.

The woman sat up straighter and turned towards them. Her eyes were milky white and distant when she finally opened them, but Dettlaff felt as though she was looking straight at him anyway. Something shifted inside him when their eyes met, and one part of the nagging, grating feeling that had bothered him for weeks disappeared.

“A witcher and his two curious friends,” the woman said. She beckoned Geralt closer, and after a moment’s hesitation, the witcher went. The woman reached out a hand, and Geralt took it. The small, withered limb inside his large hand looked oddly out of place.

“A witcher who is looking for a way home.”

Geralt and Regis stiffened, but neither said anything. Blind eyes turned towards Regis, the misty gaze reaching for his black eyes.

“And someone who is held dear, as a lover and a brother, and who has trouble deciding something.”

“How do you—?” Geralt begun in a hoarse voice, hackles rising already.

Dettlaff stepped closer and laid a calming hand on his shoulder, feeling how tense the witcher was even through the mail and leather of his armor.

“She is an empath,” Dettlaff said quietly. He was assessing the threat the woman might pose, but there was nothing obvious to him; his own senses were calm and even slightly curious.

“So I am,” the old lady laughed. She didn’t seem at all bothered by the alarm. “Fear not, witcher. Most of the villagers think me a batty old crone, whose word isn’t worth much. Your secrets are safe.”

“Who are you?” Dettlaff asked, when neither Geralt nor Regis seemed inclined to continue the discussion.

“They call me Ilona.”

“That is not a real answer,” Dettlaff said, and the woman let out another peal of laughter. Her smile was almost toothless and kind.

“No, it’s not, I know. Come on inside.”

The hut was even smaller on the inside. Dettlaff navigated the cramped space, and watched as Geralt pursed his lips in annoyance as he tried to avoid knocking anything over. Ilona bustled to the hearth sunken into the back wall of the one-room house, and lifted a teapot from the flames. Dettlaff tried to guess how she managed without her vision, and was forced to conclude that she just knew her home well enough.

Once they were seated and holding steaming cups of some herbal infusion, the old woman turned to face them. She seated herself close to the flames and regarded them with a smile.

“So, you’re the one Queen Cerys has hired to break the curse of sacrifice.”

Geralt perked up, his tea sloshing around in the cup. “The curse of sacrifice?” he asked, voice sharp.

“Aye,” Ilona said with a nod. “It is fortunate that we meet, witcher. The curse that grips the island is old, and not many remember the ancient songs.”

“Why haven’t you told the jarls about this?” Regis asked. Ilona turned to him, and she sighed.

“As I just said, not many believe or remember. They won’t listen.”

“Tell me more,” Geralt said. He was frowning and looking at the old lady with a mixture of apprehension and interest.

“A long, long time ago, the god with a hundred names gave up something in exchange for the runes and wisdom,” Ilona begun. She closed her eyes. “He sacrificed something important in exchange for what his heart desired. In doing so, he created song and poem for people, something with which we remember times past.”

“This is the myth of Woden, is it not?” Regis asked quietly. “The god who is believed to lead the Oskoreia?”

“The Wild Hunt, yes,” Ilona hummed, and Geralt opened his mouth. There was confusion roiling inside him, but before Dettlaff managed to form any thoughts, Ilona shook her head at the witcher.

“The Wild Hunt as people today know it is only a reflection of the old story,” she said. “The one you’ve battled is a facet of the myth, come to life from people’s fears and beliefs.”

“How do you know who I am?” Geralt asked. “How do you know about the Hunt?”

Ilona only shook her head. “That is not my story to tell. I’m sorry.”

“What happened to the god?” Dettlaff asked before the witcher geared up for a round of arguments. Regis glanced at him with an approving smile.

“He went away, in the end, when people forgot about him and his host,” Ilona said. “The way all gods disappear; once people no longer believe, they move on.”

“What does this all have to do with the curse?” Geralt put in. He was frowning.

“When stories are forgotten, the sacrifice to reach them becomes meaningless. It echoes through the world, but it becomes an empty shell of what it once was.”

The frown deepened, and a hint of irritation appeared again. “So the god is pissed off because people no longer worship him?”

Ilona sighed. “You fundamentally misunderstand this, witcher. It is the sacrifice that lingers. Something is waking the old stories, and in doing so, making them ripple across Skellige.”

“The god sacrificed something he valued immensely, to obtain something else,” Regis muttered to himself. His eyes were distant. “And the act of sacrifice created a bond that somehow is present even nowadays.”

“Just so,” Ilona said. “And by the time it reaches humans, only the essence remains.”

“So something is messing with the legend,” Geralt said as understanding dawned on his face. “Something, or someone, is tapping into the old myth and its magic.”

“And in doing so, they, too, misinterpret the meaning of a sacrifice as an act undertaken voluntarily. A story turns into a curse, because when what people love is taken from them, despair ripples across their existence.”

“I don’t like this,” Geralt groaned. He ran a hand down his face. “So how does this work? Do you have any idea what is making this thing happen?”

Ilona’s shoulders sagged a little as she sipped her tea. “I’m afraid not. I am old, and I’m only connecting dots based on what I know.”

“But you do know a lot,” Regis said, and Ilona gave him a faint smile.

“It has stayed in the realm of dreams for now. People are suffering because they are becoming aware of what they cannot lose. But if whoever is doing this manages to break through, the situation could get much worse.”

“To make it worse, they would need a lot of power,” Geralt muttered, looking glum. “Something raw and unchained.”

“Indeed,” Regis sighed. “It seems increasingly likely that whoever is behind this is a magic user.”

“And a powerful one at that.”

Dettlaff watched them closely, and for a second it seemed that a veil of exhaustion passed in front of Geralt’s eyes. It was gone before he could be sure.

“We’re gonna need the help from druids,” Geralt sighed. “See if they know anything about this.”

Ilona nodded. “There are stories of old magic in Skellige. Both places and objects that transcend the realm of humans. I have no idea if this is a manifestation of them, but as I said, the curse is very old and has deep roots.”

“Anything in particular come to mind?” Geralt asked, and Ilona’s misty eyes turned thoughtful.

“Here in Skellige, the Conjunction was viewed as an act of gods. Anything remaining from that time was long treated as consecrated or cursed, depending on its influence. Many myths date back to those times. At the time of the last battle against the Wild Hunt, another Conjunction almost took place. It is still scarring this land.”

“I’ll have to ask Ermion what he knows about this Woden,” Geralt muttered. “Not like I didn’t already destroy half of his sacred treasures earlier.”

Regis’ lips twitched, and Dettlaff wondered whether he could ask about that particular story later.

The witcher turned towards Ilona. “Thank you for your help.”

“You are welcome. Go in peace. Things change, but not always for the worse.”

Regis murmured a word of thanks to the old woman, but just when Dettlaff was about to step out, she called to him.

“If the silent one would stay a moment?”

Dettlaff turned around, and saw both Regis and Geralt looking at him with surprise. Ilona beckoned Dettlaff closer, a gentle smile on her lips.

“He has come a long way to speak with me.”

Regis’ eyebrows rose even higher, but he left the hut without a word. Geralt went after him, giving Dettlaff a short nod.

He sat down again, and Ilona reached out a hand. After a moment of hesitating, Dettlaff took it, minding his claws. The old woman hummed, her cloudy eyes brightening.

“You are hurting, poor dear.”

Dettlaff stiffened, but Ilona gave his hand a squeeze.

“There is no shame in it. You have been betrayed, and your heart is hurting because of that.”

“How can you know that?” Dettlaff murmured.

“Because just as I feel the centuries cling to you, I sense that something has been broken in you. It will take a long time to heal, but know that it will heal, as long as you give yourself permission for that.”

“If you’re talking about my mate—” Dettlaff blurted out, feeling shaken, but Ilona shook her head.

“Not only that, my dear. This hurt is much older. You are far away from home, are you not?”

Ivy’s curious expression flashed inside Dettlaff’s head, and her whisper accompanied it. _“Ammurun.”_

“That home never existed,” Dettlaff said defensively. Anxiety was coiling up inside him.

“Your heart doesn’t know that yet.” Ilone let his hand go. “But it will, with time. You will allow your heart to heal, once you find your people.”

“I am not taking another mate,” Dettlaff growled, bristling. Even thinking about Rhena, _no, Syanna_ , was making him feel dirty and hurting.

Ilona gave him a sad smile. “That is only one way of loving. We, be it people or other sentient creatures, have such vast capacity for loving and caring for each other.”

Her words soothed his alarm, and Dettlaff allowed the agitation to slip away. He was left feeling strangely empty.

“You came here because you are looking for something, but also because your friends need you,” Ilona continued after a while. “The two of them love each other so much that at times it will cloud their judgement. You will help them see that.”

“It doesn’t bother you? Humans are very keen on policing who they are allowed to care about,” Dettlaff asked. Anger brushed him at the thought of someone thinking his pack was something to be scorned.

“I have lived very, very long, my friend,” Ilona chuckled. “Some unions are not approved by the society, but there is nothing wrong with sincere love, however it may come to be. And love will always find a way to exist.”

Dettlaff gave a satisfied hum. He was surprised to find he liked Ilona. There was a deeply calming aura around her. It resonated with his own being, bringing his mind at ease.

“You’ve lost what you once loved, but you haven’t let it go yet,” Ilona continued after a comfortable silence. “You might want to inspect that feeling. There is also wisdom to the old proverb about setting your love free, but it is different from driving it away.”

“What does that have to do with me?” Dettlaff asked. He didn’t want to think about his hurt. Not now, maybe not ever.

“I cannot say,” Ilona told him with a smile. “Us soothsayers are known for our cryptic statements, are we not?”

Dettlaff actually snorted at that. “Thank you for your words,” he said. He got up, and Ilona stood with him. She walked him to the door, not once bumping into furniture.

“Thank you for listening to an old woman’s tale,” she answered. “Go in peace, and never stop looking for what your heart needs. It must be found several times before it sticks.”

***

When Regis returned to Ivy’s cottage the following day, he noticed right away she wasn’t without company. A man past his best years was leaning on the fence surrounding the small house, chatting amicably with Ivy. Regis paused and watched them, assessing.

Ivy had her hands on her hips and an amused smile on her face. The man was complaining about something his wife had done, something to do with grandchildren, and Ivy was chuckling, hiding her fangs with practiced ease. There was nothing in her that could cue a human in on her true nature. She had managed to mask her true scent by the floral perfume that had fooled even Regis.

A rustle behind him on the path alerted Regis, and when he turned, he saw the youngest of the children, Rowan, standing a few meters away from him. They were holding a basket and staring at him with a frown.

Regis smiled as he turned around.

“Hello. It’s Rowan, right?”

The child nodded, pursing their lips. Regis saw the basket they were carrying was empty.

“Were you running errands for Ivy?”

Rowan nodded again, and then there was a patter of footsteps. Gina came to a sliding stop next to Rowan, looking embarrassed.

“Roo, don’t go leaving alone,” she said with a scowl, dusting off pine needles from her coat. “I only wanted to look at the bird for a second.” She turned to Regis and looked uncomfortable, fiddling with her braid. “I was supposed to look after them, but I saw a bird and wanted to see what species it was. I had never seen one like it.”

“Do you like birds?” Regis asked. He kept his face and posture relaxed, because both of the children were regarding him with a hint of wariness. No wonder, really. Regis couldn’t tell whether they had ever met another adult of their kind.

“I do!” Gina said with a tight smile.

“Gina? Are you done?” Ivy’s voice interrupted them. Regis greeted her with an incline of his head, acknowledging the older man as well. He was peering at him curiously.

“A visitor, eh?” he said, reaching out a hand. Regis shook it, giving him a polite smile. “Not much people from the Continent this time of year,” the man added, scratching his badly-shaven chin. He looked like an old fisherman.

“You have keen eyes,” Regis chuckled. “But I’m coming to think you islanders are able to spot a tourist at a hundred paces.”

“Oh, aye,” Ivy said with a smile. “You stand out because you shiver even on a warm day.”

Regis laughed along with the man, especially since he knew Ivy’s jibe was a joke; vampires weren’t bothered by temperatures the way humans were. Regis made a mental note to ask Ivy how she’d spotted him so easily.

“Here on a sightseeing journey, master?” the man inquired, and Regis shook his head.

“Alas, no. Skellige would merit that, true, but I’m helping out a friend.”

“Aahh, you’re traveling with the witcher,” the man said. The smile vanished, but his eyes remained kind. Upon closer inspection, Regis saw he, too, looked tired under his good humor.

“I’d hate to ask you to hurry with the witchering, but people are scared,” the man sighed. “It’s been going on for weeks, and no one seems to know what’s causing it.”

“Well, I can promise everything that can be done, will be done,” Regis said. Ivy’s eyes darkened at that, but when the man turned back to her, she looked normal again.

“Well, I’ll leave you two to conduct your business. Much obliged, my dear. I’ll let Helga know you’ll be visiting soon.”

“Not like I’d stay up to speed with gossip without her,” Ivy scoffed. She waved goodbye to the old man, and then waited until he disappeared between the snowy trees.

“Well, you did come back,” she said, turning to Regis and giving him a small smile. “If nothing else, a certain young brat is delighted.”

Gina fiddled with her braid, making it come undone, but Regis smiled at her.

“I hope I’m still welcome?” he asked, and Ivy rolled her eyes before turning towards the front door.

“I’m not in the habit of inviting annoying people over. Unless I slam them against a rock face first.”

A startled giggle escaped Gina, and she immediately covered her mouth, glancing at Regis with a horrified expression. Regis shook his head with a smile, trying to show her he wasn’t offended.

He followed Ivy and the children inside, and soon found himself seated next to the table again. In the daylight, the cottage was looking roomier, with unadorned timber walls gone grey with age. Everything was clean and meticulously organized.

Rowan sat down next to the hearth, holding a book in their hands. They tried to catch Gina’s eye, but the girl was lingering next to the table, casting glances at Ivy and Regis. The former was measuring tea leaves into two mugs, her shoulders relaxed. She seemed much calmer now, and Regis tried to fathom how the family lived. Among humans, but still with their own kind. It was something he had never considered before.

Ivy set two cups of herbal tea on the table and sat down. In the pale morning light, Regis thought she looked like a woman in her late thirties. Tired, but content, too. He remembered her true face, and how seeing another so alike his own after many years had been almost a shock.

“Yesterday you had questions about the curse and practicalities,” Ivy said after a silence. “And I didn’t mind discussing those, but is there a reason you came back today?” Her tone was even, but Regis could tell she was curious.

“To be honest, I have no hidden motives,” Regis said with a shrug. “I’ve not met many of my kind since I decided to quit drinking blood, and have been in regular contact with even fewer.”

“You don’t drink at all?” Ivy asked, cocking her head. Gina stared at Regis, too. Regis tried to remember how old children were before they usually got their first taste of blood, but he couldn’t remember.

“Well, I used to abstain completely,” he said, taking a sip of the tea. “But since my mate is a human, he has given his blood when I’ve needed it to heal.”

Ivy frowned. “What could make you suffer enough damage to require blood to heal?”

Regis considered, and then ended up telling the whole story of what had happened in Novigrad. Most of it was public anyway, and he didn’t think the rest was anything worth hiding.

By the time he got to their second trip to the cavern, Rowan had abandoned the book and moved to sit at his feet. Gina, too, had abandoned all pretense of chores and sat down next to them. Both were listening intently, clearly not sure whether to believe him.

When he finished, Ivy blinked. She took a sip of her lukewarm tea, never once breaking eye contact, and then huffed a faint laugh.

“Well, my life is certainly starting to look dull. If nothing else, you may stick around to tell stories to the little ones.”

“With pleasure,” Regis laughed.

“Did you ever find out who was behind the cult?” Ivy asked. She played with her braid, and Regis noticed she had filed her claws short.

“We didn’t. I suspected one of our kind might have been involved in some way, because of the poison, but we never found out if that was the case.”

“I don’t like that,” Ivy muttered.

“There is something else, too,” Regis said carefully. What he’d felt in Kaer Trolde had kept bothering him. He’d been trying to find a way to ask Ivy about the elder.

“It concerns the Skellige elder. I don’t feel their claim,” he said in a quiet voice.

Ivy’s eyes widened, and then closed. Regis felt her senses expand around him, and the aether reaching back for them. Both of the children shuddered. There was a long silence, during which Gina kept darting looks at Ivy and him both.

When Ivy opened her eyes, her face turned serious. “I hadn’t noticed. The elder is a recluse, doesn’t like to interact with anyone. Their claim is very subtle at best of times, but now I can’t find it.”

Regis nodded. He tried to reach for the claim, but again he was met with an echo and nothing else. Someone had been there, but now they were gone. When he opened his eyes, Ivy was looking troubled.

“I don’t like this. First the nightmares, and now this. Something bad is going on.”

“I know,” Regis sighed. “We’re trying to find out what’s happening, but I wouldn’t rule out the two being somehow connected.”

Ivy didn’t look any happier to hear his thoughts, and for a while they sat in a gloomy silence. Then she sat up straighter and blew out a breath.

“Well, however it may be, I still have more mundane work to do. I take it you know your herbs, Regis?”

“That is correct,” Regis said with a smile. Ivy grinned at him, and for the first time she didn’t hide her fangs as she did. She rose to her feet and turned towards the dried bundles hanging on the wall behind her.

“Well, lucky you, because you’re going to teach the brats how to tell a few similar ones apart.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> c:
> 
> Look, no cliffhangers!


	7. Truths

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayyy I made it through this clusterfuck of a day, so here's chapter 7 as promised. I'm thinking I should probably add a tag, "gratuitous abuse of Norse mythology." Also I had to add a chapter to the total number, because I was writing chapter 11 last weekend, and by the time I hit 20-something pages, I realized I had dealt with less than one third of the things I had written down on my notes. So.
> 
> Beta once again by the most amazing [Tsurai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsurai/pseuds/tsurai).

“I know you tell him everything, you can stop obsessing about it.”

Regis’ eyes snapped up and met Ivy’s. She was sorting through a load of herbs with Aaron by the table. Her expression was faintly amused.

Regis opened his mouth, but couldn’t find any words. He  _ had  _ been obsessing about this. He and Geralt had agreed it was for the best if the witcher stayed away from Ivy, but nothing prevented Regis from visiting her as Geralt continued his own investigations in the area. And if she happened to offer some useful information, Regis couldn’t very well withhold that from Geralt, could he?

Only it was driving a needle of guilt into his gut, because Regis was coming to like Ivy. She was intelligent and short-tempered, and most of all, she was of his tribe; she understood some things about Regis without having to try at all.

Ivy tried to blow a stubborn curl out from her face. The hut was warm and stuffy today, because she was cooking up poultices to treat an outbreak of wool rash in the village children.

“He is your mate, Regis. Of course you tell him everything.” Ivy’s words were just a touch kinder now. Regis put his book away with a sheepish expression.

“It doesn’t bother you?” he asked carefully. Rowan looked up at him from the floor, their eyes disappointed that Regis had stopped reading aloud.

Ivy shrugged. “It does, but you make your own decisions. I trust you won’t endanger us, because you are wise and patient, unlike some people.”

Regis suppressed the unhappy turn of his mouth. Dettlaff was still steering clear of Ivy, and when Regis had asked, his brother had only repeated his earlier words.

_ “I don’t trust her.” _

“Geralt won’t bother you, as long as you keep a low profile. He is not in the habit of killing without a very good reason.”

“But he couldn’t kill us, could he?” Gina asked from where she was watching over the bubbling kettle. Regis shook his head, and she smiled, once again forgetting to hide her fangs as she did.

Being around children of his own species made Regis see how alienated he had become of their customs. At first, he had worried what could be said around them, thinking too much about the way human adults tended to skirt around difficult topics when their offspring was present.

The vampire way was different; Ivy wasn’t in the habit of keeping many secrets from her children, and as Regis prodded his own memory, he recalled he had been treated the same way when he’d been young. 

Higher vampires matured slower than humans, but they were different in some senses: namely in ways their brains handled information of an upsetting kind. Regis had always been fascinated by the way even young children of his kind were able to grasp heavy concepts without becoming alarmed. That should’ve been at odds with their emotional intensity, but the two traits often seemed to compliment each other.

“ _ Ativa _ , when can I meet the witcher again?” Gina asked shyly.

“You won’t,” Ivy muttered, throwing her a warning glare.

“But I like humans!”

Regis saw Aaron roll his eyes as he plucked waxy leaves from stems and carefully sorted through them. He and Gina looked so much alike, but Regis was coming to see they were very much unlike each other. Gina was desperately curious about everything, but especially humans, and even more about Geralt. She tried very hard to perfect her disguise, and often spoke about other children in the village in a manner that suggested she knew them personally.

Aaron was solemn and withdrawn. He didn’t mind Regis’ presence, but something in him told Regis he found appearing human tiresome. His disguise didn’t slip at any time, but Regis was good at reading others; Aaron often looked like he was wearing clothing that itched.

Rowan tugged at Regis’ leg. Their eyes were scolding, and Regis chuckled as he resumed reading. It was an old human fairytale, but Rowan seemed happy to listen to him read. Regis still couldn’t make heads or tails about the child, but something about them spoke to him. Rowan had sat down next to him a couple days ago, and after that they had seemed happy to be near Regis.

Once he was done with the story, Regis set the book down. His internal clock told him the sun would soon set, and he’d promised to meet Geralt and Dettlaff for supper.

“I need to go,” Regis said to Ivy. “Do you need anything from the village? I could bring it back tomorrow.”

“No, but thank you.” Ivy’s voice was lighter than earlier, and she walked him to the gate. Just when Regis was about to leave, she spoke.

“I meant what I said. I do know how it feels to have a mate. I don’t like the witcher, but you don’t need my approval.” She glanced at the setting sun, unbothered by the cold even in her short sleeves. Her hair was escaping from the braid, and for a second Regis wondered how old she might be.

“Thank you. I appreciate you saying that,” Regis answered. He tugged his cloak better around himself and set off.

The path that took him to the village was winding and bumpy, at times obscured by heavy spruces that hung low with accumulated snow. The air was growing colder towards the evening, and Regis felt almost calm for the first time in days.

He had spent the daylight hours with Ivy and her children, because Geralt had asked him to. He had seemed reluctant to bring the other higher vampire up, at first, but then his mind had settled all of a sudden; Geralt had pulled Regis close and told him he understood why Regis wanted to meet them again.

“I don’t have to like her,” Geralt had murmured against his hair as they stood in the room Geralt had rented at the inn. “She’s from your tribe, and you don’t need my permission to do stuff.”

“No, but I do appreciate your opinion,” Regis had told him. He had frowned until Geralt had actually chuckled. Dryly, and with a hint of exasperation.

“For what it’s worth, she seems okay. We won’t become friends anytime soon, but she seemed to like you.”

Regis listened to the light footsteps following him through the forest for a few minutes before turning around and smiling.

“I can hear you, Gina.”

“Aw, I tried so hard to be quiet.”

The girl stepped back onto the path, dusting off needles and bark from the tree she’d been hiding behind. Regis grinned at her.

“Is there a reason you’re trying to sneak up on me?” he asked, and Gina bit her lip.

“I wasn’t trying to sneak up,” she said, kicking snow and burying her stained hands into her dress pockets. “I just wanted to ask something, and Ivy won’t like it.”

“Well then, you can walk me to the village,” Regis said with another amused smile. “And when she asks, you can tell her the truth.”

Gina’s face lit up as she rushed to his side and slipped her hand into his. Regis felt her small fingers wrap around his, and a brush of affection went through him. Vampire children really didn’t differ much from human ones, but Gina’s easy trust in him was still touching. As they started walking towards the village, Regis glanced at the girl and noted with satisfaction that she had at least dressed appropriately for the cold before sneaking out.

“Ivy has taught you all well,” he remarked. “You easily pass for a human.” He kept his voice so low that even if someone had been walking a few steps away from them, they wouldn’t have been able to overhear.

“It was hard at first,” Gina said, looking up at him and never once stumbling on tree roots sticking up through the ice and snow. “Especially the face part is difficult, and I still can’t laugh without showing my teeth. I always cover my mouth.”

“It will get easier,” Regis told her.

Gina sighed. “I like humans. I’d like to stay here forever and live with them. I can’t understand why Aaron hates it so much.”

“Does he? Hate it, I mean,” Regis asked. Gina shrugged. Her dark hair was tangled and there were still several needles stuck in it.

“He doesn’t want to live among humans. He always says he wants to live with his—I mean our kind,” she explained. “But aren’t humans our kind as well? We share a world with them.” Her dark eyes found Regis’, earnest and hopeful.

Regis smiled. “That is a very beautiful thought.”

Gina’s face fell a little. “But you don’t agree.”

“I didn’t say that,” Regis reassured her, giving her hand a squeeze. “I’ve lived among humans almost longer than with our kind. I respect them. I have more human friends than vampire ones, in fact.”

“Do they know what you are?” Gina asked.

“Some of them do,” Regis admitted. “But it’s always a big risk to reveal our true nature, even if we can’t be killed by humans.”

Gina chewed her lip. “I know. I’m not stupid, even if Aaron says I am.”

“You’re not stupid. And neither are humans. Some of them are well worth the trust,” Regis said with a gentle smile.

“Like him? Geralt?” Gina’s voice was very careful, but a small smile was playing on her lips.

“Yes, like Geralt,” Regis chuckled.

“Is he really your mate?”

Regis automatically reached for the bond, and he felt Geralt brush back, letting him know he was waiting for him.

“He is,” Regis said.

“How does it feel?” Gina asked. When Regis turned to look at her, she shrugged.

“I don’t think it’s weird that he’s a human. I didn’t know humans could forge a mating bond, but if you like him, I don’t see what could be so wrong about it. Although,” she said, he face turning serious, “if he kills vampires it might be a problem.”

Regis gave a soft laugh. “As I said, he never kills without reason. The only monsters he slays are the ones hurting others.”

They walked in silence for a while, and then Gina tugged at his hand. “You didn’t answer my question.”

Regis drew in a deep breath and released it. To think that explaining the bond to another vampire, albeit a young one, would feel almost as difficult as telling about it to his human friends.

“He’s my home,” he begun, considering his words carefully. “He has been my friend for many years, and I trust him with my life.”

“Do you love him?” Gina asked, her eyes once again wide and curious. Regis huffed a laugh at her straightforward manner.

“I do.”

The village came into view, and Regis took in the flickering torches as the guards slowly made their rounds to light braziers around streets and houses. Holmstein was much smaller than the village of Kaer Trolde, but it was welcoming in some ways. Even after staying there for just three days, people were already recognizing him, and almost all of them greeted Gina by name. Regis and Gina made their way through the few streets, and when the inn came into view, Gina drew in an excited breath.

Geralt was standing outside the inn with Dettlaff, the two of them talking. Regis let his eyes sweep over his pack, and happiness rushed to him when he saw how much more comfortable they were with each other.

Geralt turned to face him with a smile, which turned cautious when his eyes found Gina.

“Hey,” he said, nodding to the girl. “Shouldn’t you be at home?”

“I can do what I want,” Gina said, placing her hands on her hips. A smile tugged at Regis’ lips, and he sensed amusement from both Geralt and Dettlaff.

“She insisted on walking me here,” Regis explained, and Geralt smiled at that.

“Were you afraid?” Gina blurted out, drawing everyone’s gazes at herself. She blinked a few times, but then faced Geralt with a curious, open expression. “When you, you know, found me?”

Geralt rubbed his neck, but met Gina’s stare with a crooked smile.

“Witchers don’t really feel fear, not in the way normal, eh, humans do.” His mouth twitched with amusement.

Gina pursed her lips. “Ivy told me witchers have feelings.”

“We do, but don’t tell anyone,” Geralt shot back, and Gina’s eyes widened with delight. She covered her mouth as she giggled, and Regis felt a rush of good humor go through the bond. 

“So I thought,” Gina said. She glanced towards the sky and sighed. “I need to go back. Ivy will be mad.”

“Tell her you needed to see Regis got back safely,” Geralt said. “He’s old, needs a helping hand.”

Regis rolled his eyes, but he was hard-pressed to be truly annoyed; Dettlaff’s eyes lit up at the joke, and even when he hid his smile from Gina, he had no hope of concealing it from Regis. Or Geralt, for that matter, as Regis saw the witcher glance at him and grin wider.

Gina surprised Regis by hugging him quickly. Before Regis could react, she let him go.

“See you tomorrow!” she said and then she was running away, braids bouncing.

Regis followed her with his eyes and smiled to himself. When he turned to meet Geralt’s eyes, they were full of curious laughter.

“You’re getting close.”

Regis shrugged as they stepped through the door. “She’s very young, and doesn’t hold many prejudices against others. I find her company pleasant.”

Geralt looked down, still smiling faintly. “I’ve never seen you with kids, now that I think of it. Even after you left Fen Carn with us, you kept your distance from them.”

“It was very different,” Regis said. They sat down, and after a barmaid had swung by, he met Geralt’s eyes again. “It was war time, and I didn’t think the mothers or the children would have appreciated a stranger approaching them.”

“And she is one of our kind,” Dettlaff added very quietly.

“Does that matter?” Geralt asked, lifting an eyebrow. The barmaid came back and set down tankards, and he smiled in thanks. The girl winked at him, and then blushed bright as she went back to the counter.

“Yes,” Dettlaff said thoughtfully, peering into his stein as if to discern whether the contents were safe to drink. “Children form tentative bonds very easily with adult individuals who are trusted by their parents or parental figures. It’s in children’s nature to easily trust others of the same tribe.”

Regis smiled as he listened Dettlaff’s calm and easy words. It was so good to hear him talk like that, as if he was in the presence of friends. It took Regis back to the time he had spent regenerating, and reminded him of the gentler, less sad person his brother had been during that time. So much had changed since then, and those changes needed to be addressed at some point.

“But isn’t that dangerous?” Geralt asked. His mind was glowing bright with curiosity inside Regis’ head. “What if someone decides to take advantage of that?”

“You’re thinking of humans now,” Dettlaff said with a shake of his head. “You know we don’t fight or kill each other. Children are cherished and precious to us, especially since they have become rarer as time goes by. It’s not normally in our nature to harm young ones, in any way.”

“Huh,” Geralt said, leaning back and looking appreciative. “That sounds much better than what humans do.”

Dettlaff gave him a crooked smile, and Regis sat back. His mind was still feeling calm, because he saw what was happening; his pack was growing closer, becoming whole. Despite the circumstances, Regis found himself happy for a moment.

“How was your day?” he asked after food was brought to them.

Geralt sighed into his soup. “Nothing much. I visited another place of power that’s within riding distance, my horse got spooked by a wolf and almost threw me into a stream, and then I went to see the local druids.”

Dettlaff’s mouth curled into an unhappy expression. “They were less than helpful.”

“None of them even properly knew the myth of Woden, and the only one who did told me it’s no business of mine to be solving this curse,” Geralt went on. He exchanged a glance with Dettlaff, and Regis felt mutual annoyance flicker between them.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Geralt looked at him, and Regis knew he’d sneak into Geralt’s room later today; his mate was in need of closeness. So was he, for that matter.

“I’ll go to Kaer Muire tomorrow,” Geralt said. He leaned his chin on his hand and let his gaze drift around the inn. “I need to speak to Jarl Sága again. See if I can catch her without her cronies this time.”

“I could come with you,” Regis offered. Geralt smiled at him.

“I think I need to go alone, try to assess the mood there. You can make yourself useful here in the village, or go see Ivy and her kids again.”

Regis opened his mouth, but couldn’t come up with anything. Both of his companions noticed, but neither commented on it. They finished eating, and Regis kept mulling over his internal conflict. 

 

Later, when he materialized inside Geralt’s room, the witcher was waiting for him in bed. Geralt lifted the corner of the blanket, and Regis accepted the invitation with a relieved rush inside his chest. The bond had been somewhat muted during the past few days, as if Geralt was lost in thought with his focus turned inwards; Regis had wanted to believe it was because of the job, but now he felt uncertain.

“Hey,” Geralt murmured as Regis climbed into the bed. “Shit, your feet are cold.”

Regis chuckled apologetically, tucking his toes into the folds of the blanket as he curled against Geralt. The witcher wrapped his arms around him and tension bled out from his muscles.

“Still not used to being away from you,” he said as his fingers played in Regis’ hair. Regis had finally given up and tied the hair back, even if doing so woke up old memories he wasn’t keen on examining.

“Do you mean the bond?” Regis asked. Geralt gave him a rueful smile and nodded, and Regis pressed still closer to kiss him.

“It will get easier.”

“I know,” Geralt said, and Regis heard the hesitation in his tone. He kept quiet, watching his mate.

“I just don’t like it. I’m so used to being with you.”

Regis felt the ripple of frustration that Geralt tried to hide, and he understood. Geralt had spent so many years alone, depending only on himself. Being tied to another soul was bound to be odd when set against that background.

“I know, love,” Regis said as he brushed his lips against Geralt’s cheek. “But we will manage.  _ You  _ will manage.”

Geralt smiled, warmer this time, and Regis basked in the certainty of their bond; his body was going pliant, mind humming with happiness. Geralt felt so good against him, unyielding and inviting at the same time.

“How was your day?” Geralt asked. Regis blinked his eyes open, realizing only then he’d been drifting inside his own head. He took a moment to reorient his thoughts.

“Uneventful, to be honest,” he finally replied. It was the truth, because after a few days spent together with the curious family they had found, Regis had found himself slipping into something of a routine. It was a new thing, to be able to coexist with his own kind, even if it was for a little while only.

“How are things with Ivy?” Geralt went on. He looked hesitant, and Regis swallowed. He didn’t want to keep anything from Geralt—

—except that he was doing so by not telling him about the seneschal. What’s worse, Regis had ended up telling Ivy about the whole debacle.

It had been an accident. The children had been out, Aaron watching over Gina and Rowan as they played in the snow, and Regis had been enjoying a quiet moment with Ivy. It was laughably easy to be in her company, and Regis hadn’t even tried to understand all of it; he remembered such connections from his youth, before the addiction, when his soul just seemed to resonate with another’s. Vampires either got along very well, or not at all.

Dettlaff had been different, but Regis didn’t know if it was because he was originally from another tribe. With him, there had been a long period of shyness and unease, before they had found a way to coexist. 

But Ivy was Gharasham, and Regis felt safe and content with her.

Ivy had mentioned her previous trip to Kaer Trolde, and how she had almost run straight into Queen Cerys in the village. She had told Regis how the seneschal had jumped between them before he realized there was no danger, and then apologized profusely for his brash behavior.

A shadow had passed over Regis’ face, and even when he and Ivy didn’t share a pack bond, she had noticed. She hadn’t asked, only tilted her head with worried eyes, and Regis had spilled everything. The worry had been eating him inside, and letting some of it out had felt good.

Ivy had listened, her eyes narrow and angry by the time Regis finished. He’d felt hollow afterwards. Ivy had looked like she wanted to say something, but had settled on taking his hand. They’d sat in silence until the children came back.

“Normal,” Regis said. He sighed. “We’re becoming closer, but she isn’t keen on telling me more about the curse. I’m not even certain she knows more.”

Technically he wasn’t lying, but his stomach was tying itself into knots. Regis tried to hide his unease, but Geralt’s eyes widened as the bond rippled with his inner conflict. The witcher pulled him closer.

“Hey, I meant what I said,” Geralt said with a frown. “I don’t have to like her, but you can be her friend. It’s not my business to say anything about that.”

Regis felt a jolt of guilt when he realized Geralt thought he was feeling bad about liking Ivy. He opened his mouth, the truth at the tip of his tongue, but Geralt kissed him before it could fall into the silence. Regis’ breath hitched.

Geralt gripped his hair, and his other arm was holding Regis tight. When they parted, he smiled. “You probably haven’t had many vampire friends lately? Hold on to her if that’s what you want.”

Regis did want that. He’d been unconsciously preparing to lose the new friendship sooner rather than later, but Geralt voicing the possibility made Regis ache even more. Aside from Dettlaff, he had steered clear from almost everyone else of his kind. He had to tolerate Orianna’s company on occasion, but it was a far cry from friendship.

There weren’t many higher vampires as it was, and even fewer who wanted to live among humans. The possibility of not losing the chance at true friendship with Ivy was suddenly glowing inside Regis’ mind. It was a small spark of hope, but it was there now.

Geralt cupped his cheek and kissed him again when he felt the brush of joy through the bond, and Regis melted against him. His hand slipped under Geralt’s thin shirt and skimmed up his side, making the witcher arch into his touch with a happy sigh. Geralt’s arms tightened around him, and Regis pressed a kiss to his mouth.

“I’d wager we need to be quiet,” he said with a faint smile. His blood was warming up, coursing through him as Geralt mirrored his smile and kissed him again. He moved on, keeping the contact light, until Regis moved on top of him and pressed him down.

Regis took his time, stripping off clothing and kissing everything he could reach, returning every few minutes to hold Geralt as close as possible and melt into deep, slow kisses. It was calmer than their usual pace, and Regis could feel Geralt’s mind slowing down from the anxious whirring, until both of them floated in a pleasant haze.

Regis didn’t initiate anything more, curious to see what Geralt would ask, and when the witcher rolled over he pressed down, coming to rest against his back. His cock found a teasing place between Geralt’s thighs, and Regis enjoyed the shallow breaths Geralt took every time he brushed against tender spots.

When he finally pushed in and started to move, Geralt gave up the last vestige of control and buried his head into his pillow. He was pliant and warm, and Regis tried to hold him as close as possible, reaching a hand around him to stroke his cock.

Regis felt his worried heart quieting down as he moved inside his lover, and Geralt making small, content noises against the pillow made him smile wider than in days. Doubt about the situation made shadows flicker against the warm glow, but Regis told himself he’d address those worries soon. Now he wanted to feel every nuance of the overwhelming love the bond was full of, and then send all that back to Geralt to show him how much he meant.

They lost the track of time, and when Geralt finally broke and came with a muffled whine, Regis halted, drawing out the moment; he tried to commit the sound to memory, eternalize it so that he’d never forget how perfect they were together, and how happy they made each other.

Just before sleep took him, Regis sensed Geralt’s eyes on him. His sleepy gaze was thoughtful, and his smile was both melancholy and so fond it tugged at Regis’ heart.

 

_ When Regis woke, he wasn’t in the bed. There was a moment of confusion, as he tried to remember what had happened. He’d gone to sleep with Geralt at the inn in Holmstein, and now he was… _

_ He wasn’t. _

_ Regis tried to draw in a breath, but there was nothing. His lungs didn’t burn for the lack of oxygen, because he had no lungs. He couldn’t blink, couldn’t see, because— _

_ Horror creeped over him, and Regis wanted to describe it in physical terms to have something to hang on to, but there were no words. He was tired and empty, as good as dead. Time wasn’t for him any longer, and every attempt to grope for the past made him recoil when a memory of a searing, burning pain resurfaced from the murk. After a while, he settled into the echo, feebly struggling against the pull of the deeper oblivion. _

_ Regis knew there had been something before this; what’s more, something about his death felt wrong, like a timeline was mixed up somehow. A whisper of hope brushed him, but it was gone when he registered its presence. He wanted to cry or rage, but his emotions were slipping away one by one. There was only the darkness that wasn’t lack of light so much as everything having gone away. _

_ He’d been left behind. _

_ Piece by piece, Regis felt his soul slip away. It diluted into a husk of what it once was, and surely there wouldn’t be anything left after a while? A spasm he would’ve liked to call pain came and went when a vision of golden eyes flashed inside his not-mind. It, too, was gone the next second, and Regis settled into the emptiness. _

 

His eyes blinked open, and world rushed back in a chaos of color: dark blue, a soft glow of moonlight, and those golden eyes looking into his. There was a mess of bright white hair framing the face. The lips moved, whispering agitated words, and every single one of them crawled inside his ears like something  _ alive— _

“Regis? Regis, answer me!”

He was breathing again, his diaphragm moving slowly. It was a minute movement, just enough to keep him there. His heart was beating, he had a heart again.

“Regis! Talk to me,  _ please _ .”

The man was gripping his hair, and now his voice was growing scared. He glanced away, towards the window, and a medallion caught the pale light. Wolf’s head flashed, the sight familiar and a threat at the same time.

“Regis,  _ I can’t feel the bond _ ,” the man said. The last word broke in the middle.

Suddenly a red-tinted mist billowed into the room, and a second later another person was leaning over him. His eyes were very pale. The small amount of breath Regis managed to draw inside his lungs whispered of snow, pines, and something that felt almost familiar.

The man—who wasn’t a man, not like the other one—cupped his cheek very gently. He turned to the white-haired man and said something before bringing his free hand to his mouth. He bit down on his wrist, hard enough to break skin, and then brought the wound to Regis’ mouth.

The taste exploded inside his mouth; blood that had called him back from the nonexistence. Blood of his brother, who wasn’t his brother, because they came from different families.

Regis gasped, and the next thing he knew, strong arms were cradling him as he lunged upright. Panic was scrabbling inside his head, taking over his senses for a second before he smelled Dettlaff, holding him in place, and Geralt, hovering close by. He smelled Geralt’s anxiety heavy in the air, followed a millisecond later by the bond rushing back to both of them.

Calmness forced itself through the cracks in his horror, cooling the fire that burned in every note. Familiar and hard-won, because he and Dettlaff had worked for that bond for a long time. As Regis slowly stopped struggling against the embrace, he realized his breath was coming in ragged gasps.

Geralt was by his side in an instant, pulling Regis close and pressing their foreheads together. Dettlaff’s arms loosened but didn’t leave, and Geralt drew in a breath as the bond gripped them tighter. For a second the connection trashed wildly, but then it calmed, pulling Regis in. His eyes slipped closed.

Regis felt a moment of vertigo, and then everything came to a stop. He was still inside the inn room, held by both Dettlaff and Geralt, but at the same time he was somewhere else, where being didn’t  _ hurt _ . Regis gave up trying to understand what it was, and allowed himself to float without many conscious thoughts.

He felt Geralt there, against his soul. Dettlaff was almost as close to him, his mind’s customary frequency a comforting hum in the distance. Regis felt his body release the tension, and at the same time his mind started to piece itself back together. He gave up trying to understand, and allowed the mental landscape to shift and quiver.

After what felt like a long time, Regis pulled himself upright and opened his eyes. Moonlight was coming in from a completely different angle. He was half-sitting amidst rumpled bedclothes. Geralt lifted his gaze, his hands hovering for a second before landing on his shoulders.

“Regis?” he whispered. His eyes were still scared, and Regis reached for him with the bond, drawing immense comfort when Geralt’s mind responded without delay.

“I’m here,” Regis said. His voice was hoarse.

The arms still holding him tightened before relaxing. Dettlaff shifted on the bed, and Regis turned to face him. Dettlaff’s hand remained pressed against his back, and the contact grounded him further.

“What happened?” Regis asked. His body was slowly reasserting itself, and Regis felt his eyes and ears shift back towards his human guise.

Geralt looked at Dettlaff and then down, swallowing.

“I had a nightmare. Not as bad as last time, but it woke me up. I thought you’d left, at first.” His voice faded away as he groped for words, and Regis guessed what Geralt had felt. Where the bond had been, had been an echo, or maybe just emptiness.

“And then I realized you were right there, staring into nothing, and I… The bond was gone,” Geralt said in a rush, as if uttering the words quickly would make the pain unable to catch up with him.

The stab of panic went through Regis in its muted form, and he winced in sympathy. “I’m sorry.”

Geralt blew out a shaky breath and shook his head.

“Not your fault. I tried to call for you for a long time, and then I just—panicked.”

Dettlaff’s hand twitched against Regis’ back before settling against his spine. “I felt it. So I came.” His brother’s voice was quiet. “I couldn’t feel you,” he added, looking Regis in the eye. His gaze was pained.

“I did the only thing that came to mind, because seeing you like that called back a memory of bringing you back.”

“That’s what I dreamed of,” Regis murmured. His body was growing tired, and without a word Geralt shuffled closer so Regis could lean on him. The movement put all three of them close together, and Regis fleetingly worried if the proximity with Dettlaff would bother Geralt.

“Of the time before I found you?” Dettlaff asked in a low voice.

Regis nodded. He wanted to close his eyes, suddenly exhausted, but he wasn’t ready to give up the pale moonlight. Being able to see made him believe he was real again.

“Must be the curse,” Geralt said. “I couldn’t find the bond. Could be the curse can dig so deep it made it happen.”

“It’s likely,” Dettlaff hummed. His hand came to rest against the back of Regis’ neck in a gesture that reminded them both of the time when Regis had needed physical contact to believe he was real, that the world was his to touch and feel again, and that he wouldn’t slip away without a warning.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” Regis whispered again.

Geralt gave a mirthless chuckle. “Stop apologizing.”

They settled into an easy silence after that, and Regis finally dared to close his eyes. He extended his other senses, sorting through the smells and sounds one by one, naming each as he had done when he’d started to believe he existed again. After a while, sleep started to tug at him, and just before it enveloped him in a soft cocoon, he was aware of Geralt lowering him back onto the bed.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” Dettlaff whispered from somewhere far away.

“Thank you.” Geralt’s voice was very quiet, but it was so sincere it pulled Regis a bit towards wakefulness.

Geralt and Dettlaff had been learning to trust on one another, but what Regis felt now was much simpler. It wasn’t a human feeling, but something he recognized from himself, from the core that would remain unaltered no matter how long he lived among humans. It was originating from  _ Geralt _ , coming and going in unconscious brushes against the bond.

It was the first tendril of the kind of trust Regis shared with Dettlaff.

***

Geralt slept lightly, and woke up when the first light of the morning reached the small room. He stayed under the covers, still holding Regis who slept with his face buried into a pillow. The vampire remained in deep, exhausted sleep. His hair was a mess of black and grey curls, and Geralt found himself trying to sort through them in silence as he attempted to make sense of the night’s events.

When the pale winter sunlight finally illuminated the room properly, Regis stirred. Geralt watched him blink, still more asleep than awake, clearly not remembering the harrowing nightmare just yet.

When Regis stiffened, Geralt tightened his grip.

“Morning. Everything’s okay.”

Regis looked up with wide eyes. He drew in a deep breath and released it slowly, forcing his body to relax.

“I’m sorry I scared you, love,” he said in a thin voice.

Geralt pressed a kiss at the corner of Regis’ mouth. “I told you to stop apologizing,” he said with a tired smile. “It was the curse.”

Regis sighed and snuggled closer. The bond was feeling heavy and sad inside Geralt’s head.

“I dreamed of the time before Dettlaff found me,” Regis mumbled. “I didn’t exist then, so it makes sense the bond would be affected, too.”

“Yeah,” Geralt agreed. A hollow feeling persisted inside his head, echoing with the confusion and subsequent dread he’d felt when he had seen Regis’ empty eyes. “That makes sense.”

“What I don’t understand is how Dettlaff managed to pull me back from it,” Regis continued, looking at Geralt again, some of his customary curiosity resurfacing. “If the curse is strong enough to numb the bond, it’s nothing I’ve ever even heard of.”

Geralt shrugged. He watched Regis closely, because seeing him alive after last night was calming him.

“Maybe it’s the bit about pack knowing how to help each other,” he finally suggested. “Dettlaff helped you last time.”

Regis nodded, pursing his lips. Geralt tucked his hair behind his ear, and the vampire smiled.

“You did something, as well,” Regis added after a thoughtful pause. “Afterwards.”

Geralt thought back and chuckled. “I pulled you into the place where I go when I meditate. Nothing special.”

“Quite the contrary, my dear,” Regis said with a faint smile. “It helped me ground myself, when every sense was getting overwhelmed.”

“Oh,” Geralt said, his smile growing wider as cautious happiness pushed some of the lingering worry aside. “Well, glad to hear it worked.”

“It would be nice to do it again, sometime,” Regis said as he let his claws gently scratch Geralt’s hair. “My mind is usually very full of thoughts, and experiencing that kind of peace would most likely do me good.”

“Is that your way of saying you talk too much even to yourself?” Geralt laughed. Regis rolled his eyes, but Geralt felt his mood lighten.

 

Kaer Muire wasn’t much more welcoming the second time around. Geralt rode up the hill alone, after leaving Regis with Dettlaff. The latter had met them outside the inn. A worried frown had persisted on his forehead even after Regis smiled and told his brother he was doing much better. Geralt suspected Dettlaff would spend the day hovering, and he was fine with letting the two vampires deal with it in their own way.

The passing guards kept glancing at him with thinly veiled apprehension and anger. He’d departed Skellige so soon after they had defeated the Hunt, he hadn’t had the time to assess just how much damage they had caused. It was becoming more apparent now, signs of the battles still visible in people and places, after twelve months. 

The day was bright, but Geralt spied clouds rolling in from the west as he stopped before the gates. There would be more snow later.

Jarl Sága received him in her keep, in a room Regis would’ve called a study. She looked even more tired than the last time Geralt had met her, confirming Geralt’s suspicion that the nightmares truly hit the whole community at the same time. He made a mental note to check if they gripped the whole island at once, too.

“Witcher,” the jarl greeted him. “I believe we concluded our business already.” Her dark eyes were keen on his face, and Geralt forced tension to leave his frame.

“With all due respect, I was hoping otherwise,” Geralt said. He remained standing, and Jarl Sága leaned back in her chair. “The curse is getting more powerful as time passes. I only wish to help.”

“You have been talking to my people,” Sága remarked. She cocked her head. “You even visited the soothsayer.”

Geralt knew he shouldn’t be surprised he was being watched. He nodded.

“I did. She told me it could have something to do with an old legend.”

Sága closed her eyes and sighed, letting the air hiss out slowly. When she opened her eyes, they were more alert; wary, but curiosity was kindling.

“How badly do you want to solve this?” she asked in a voice that was almost a whisper.

Geralt was slightly taken aback. He narrowed his eyes at the jarl, who stood up and stepped closer.

“What is Skellige to an outsider?” Sága asked, coming to a stop in front of him. They were almost of height.

“I have friends here,” Geralt told her, trying to see where this was going. “My daughter spent her childhood years in Kaer Trolde.”

“And I grew up with Cerys an Craite, but still we took different paths,” Sága cut him off. “Why do you care?”

Geralt opened his mouth, but found he lacked a straight answer. They stood in silence, Sága watching him without blinking, one hand resting on the hilt of her sword. She didn’t rush him, and Geralt was forced to admit his answer wasn’t going to be very good or profound.

“I’m here because I’m a witcher,” he finally said. “Someone asked for help.”

The words dropped into the silence, and before Geralt knew what was happening, Sága relaxed and laughed. Some of the agitation bled from her shoulders.

“And here I thought you were driven by some complex personal quest, or Continental arrogance,” she said, as if to herself. “But no. Someone  _ asked for help _ .” She blew out a breath and met Geralt’s eyes again, looking equal parts disbelieving and inquisitive.

“I am willing to cooperate with you, but not out of the kindness of my heart.”

“Works for me,” Geralt grunted, still feeling like he was walking along a dark corridor, unable to see where he was going.

Sága leaned against her table, crossing her arms. “You know my position is precarious, witcher. I am the legitimate daughter of Madman Lugos, but there are several people who dispute the fact. I need to prove them wrong.”

“You want me to help do that in exchange for, what, exactly?” Geralt asked, crossing his own arms and shifting his weight. He’d been standing very still.

Sága’s smile, when it reappeared, was thin and knowing. “Not many know of it, but clan Drummond has traditionally kept pedantic logs about old myths. Our heritage spans back much further than the other clans’, and we have a separate druids’ circle devoted to the study of the old songs.”

Geralt looked at her closely, waiting. She had set the bait, and now he needed to see whether going after it would be worth the inevitable hook that would burrow under his skin.

Sága’s face turned satisfied in the face of his silence. The washed out sunlight caught her hair as she moved to a bookshelf.

“There is a story, an old one. It speaks of a magical artefact that can reveal the truth of past,” she said. She ran her fingers along the spines, searching, until she plucked out a book so old it looked minutes away from crumbling to dust. “We have records of it, but nothing newer than a century old.”

Geralt resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “And you want me to find this thing so you can cement your rule?” He knew he was being rude, and the flash of anger in Sága’s eyes confirmed it.

“I want to rule, because my clan is going to  _ shit _ ,” she said through her teeth. She set the ancient book on the table, and Geralt saw her fingers were twitching. “My father was a great warrior, but he was also a man mad with arrogance. He couldn’t care less about the old ways, when they didn’t support grappling for power and raiding merchant vessels.”

She drew herself up and met Geralt’s eyes. “We have been here longer than others. An Craites have surpassed us, because my predecessors were stupid and weak. They didn’t care enough to arm their women properly, to see that the sick and weak are treated as befits the members of clan Drummond.”

“And you are going to change that?” Geralt asked. This time his voice was smooth, and a hint of respect was working its way in it.

Sága nodded. She made a sweeping motion with her hand, indicating the keep around them. “Kaer Muire used to be the beating heart of Ard Skellig. Can you believe it?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Before you start worrying about your friends in Kaer Trolde, I can tell you I have no wish to start a civil war. I recognize Cerys an Craite as the queen of the Isles. I only hope to restore the might of my clan, and reassert us as a true authority in Skellige, so as not to remain the hovel-dwelling pillagers that we’ve become.”

Geralt stayed silent, watching her face for any trace of lies. Sága stared right back, her chin up and hands calm once more.

“I need peace to rule, if I’m to do that,” she said when Geralt didn’t speak. “And to have my peace, I need proof I’m the legitimate heir to Madman Lugos.”

“Is finding that artefact the only way?” Geralt asked.

Sága nodded. “My father, in his limited appreciation of the archives, saw to erasing me completely. I have found no other way to prove who my father was.”

“Why should I trust your word on this?” Geralt asked. His voice was more curious than antagonistic, and Sága met the question with a cocked eyebrow and a faint smile. 

“Because I’m asking for your help, in exchange of helping you. We don’t allow outsiders to the archives, but I have been there and I know what you’re looking for.” She looked out of the window that offered a view to the courtyard of the keep. Geralt followed her gaze, and they watched a smith hammer away for a while. A young lad was standing close by, working the bellows and watching everything with keen eyes.

“I want to make life better for the common folk,” Sága added, nodding towards the people outside. “I was raised by my mother in Kaer Trolde village. She was cast out of the clan by my father. She was his first wife, and it simply didn’t do to have a female firstborn.”

Geralt frowned, and Sága smiled without any humor.

“Blueboy knew of me. He was a good lad, always treated me well when he snuck out to meet me. Got beaten up more than once for that, too.” She cleared her throat. “My point being, I know how the poor and sick live, and it’s a shame that stains our clan.”

Geralt sighed. He knew he was going to say yes. Sága seemed to know it, too.

“What am I looking for, exactly?” he asked. He stepped closer to the desk, and Sága carefully flipped open the old book. She browsed loose pages, turning them with great care, until she found a drawing of what looked like an ornate locket.

“This is called the medallion of Kvasir. It is said that whoever wears it can gain unparalleled wisdom and momentarily see the truth in anything.” Sága turned a page, her finger tracing the faded writing. “The medallion was traditionally passed down from one king to the next. It was lost during the last century or so, in one of the scuffles for the throne. The legend says the Goddess of the Sea claimed the wisdom for herself, when she grew disgusted by mortal men’s thirst for power.” 

Sága smiled, a mix of amusement and frustration. “My theory is that the king, who just happened to be from clan an Craite, was overthrown with the help of the pirates he’d been holding court with.”

“Hang on,” Geralt put in. “You can’t mean I need to go hunt after a trinket that pirates stole a century ago?”

Sága shook her head, her mouth drawing into a tight line. “A merchant passed by Holmstein eight months ago, just when I was about to stake my claim to the seat of the jarl. We exchanged tales, and he mentioned doing business with a pirate captain who trades in secrets as well as stolen goods. The merchant remarked on the captain’s unusual knowledge of old legends and stories. If the man is to be believed, the pirate captain has taken a special interest in robbing the high and mighty of their historical possessions and then selling them back to their rightful owners.”

“Why on earth would a pirate do that?” Geralt asked. He rubbed a hand down his face. The task was starting to look daunting.

Sága looked out again, pondering her words for a spell. Then he met Geralt’s eyes again. “I’m told she believes in people having a fundamental right to their past  _ and  _ present.”

A few seconds passed, and then a rush of understanding went through Geralt.

“You’re talking about Marja Darling,” he said with a tired voice. Sága’s thin smile stretched almost into a grin.

“Aye. I believe you’ve already met.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \:D/


	8. Improbable Hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work has been MAD BUSY, but manual labor days mean I get to spend almost eight hours a day thinking about this story. Oh joy. If only I had the energy to write even a fraction of that much.
> 
> This chapter is a touch shorter than the ones that follow. This is because of plot reasons, meaning that Regis talks too much, Geralt is fucking stubborn, and Dettlaff keeps agonizing over simple decisions. 
> 
> Beta by [Tsurai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsurai/pseuds/tsurai). <3

The first thing Geralt saw when he exited the keep was Ivy, standing at the foot of the stairs leading to the door. She was clad in her customary orange cloak, carrying a large leather bag. Their eyes met, and Geralt forced his initial ire down; he’d promised Regis he wouldn’t pick a fight. On his own initiative, no less.

“Witcher,” Ivy greeted him as he descended the steps. She inclined her head, looking at him with her light brown eyes.

“Hi,” Geralt answered. He was feeling awkward, because this was the first time they’d seen each other since the argument. He knew both of them were to blame, but still a brush of shame passed his mind.

“You’re still looking for answers,” Ivy said when the silence didn’t show any signs of becoming less excruciating on its own. Her voice was calm, but her gaze didn’t waver from Geralt’s face.

“Part of the job.” Geralt managed to keep his own voice polite enough. “I’m not prying because I want to cause trouble to you or your kids,” he added as an afterthought, dropping his voice so low a normal human would have trouble hearing him.

Lame, as far as peace offerings went, but Geralt had felt how much Regis valued the growing friendship with Ivy. He needed to try a bit, even if it went against his own instincts.

Ivy tilted her head, considering him for a long moment. Then she sighed and looked away.

“I’m aware of that. Regis has been...trying to explain what you are to him.”

“He has?” Geralt asked. He wasn’t sure why he felt surprised, then.

“Yes.” Ivy looked at him again. She pushed the hood of her cloak off, even when the sky looked ominous, like the snow would begin to fall any second.

“I promised him I would treat you civilly if we met again. It’s clear you love each other very much, and I can feel your bond is genuine. I’ve shared a mating bond, and I can recognize one,” she continued, her voice, too, dropping into a whisper.

Geralt glanced around, but the people on the courtyard weren’t paying them any attention. Ivy kept watching him, and something about her unabashed stare reminded Geralt of Dettlaff’s way of trying to see through his skull when the vampire didn’t grasp a human concept at once.

“There is, however, one thing I must say.”

A stab of irritation made Geralt ground his teeth together. One of the fangs nicked his lip as he did, not enough to draw blood.

“No matter how you want to see this, you two are not the same,” Ivy said. Her hands played on the strap of her bag before stilling, and her lips tightened. “You can be sure I know how wonderful a mating bond is, but my codex obligates me to deliver this warning to you: hearts will break, and that is the least serious of outcomes if this continues.”

“Is that a threat?” Geralt asked. He was floating somewhere between incredulity and anger, but before he sank into the latter Ivy lifted her chin and looked almost offended.

“I’m not stupid, Geralt. I know Regis and Dettlaff think of you as pack. Harming you would almost justify their retaliation in the eyes of our kind.”

Geralt blinked, trying to absorb the news, but Ivy went on: “You are a human. A mutated one with some vampire genes, with an extended lifespan, yes, but still a human.”

“Vampires are not immortal,” Geralt hissed back. He saw where Ivy was going, and it hit too close to his own worries.

How many times had he remembered the fact that Regis would very likely outlive him? He had always known it, of course, but only when Regis started to look healthier and happier did it really, truly become evident. Geralt had shied away from thinking about it, because the thought made a coil of pain unfurl inside his chest, burning like too cold air in his lungs.

Ivy looked at him with a flat expression. The silence wasn’t awkward; instead a heavy, bitter sorrow seeped into Geralt as he stared at the ground, trying to mask how badly the topic was unsettling him.

“There are things over which we have control, and that illusion holds us together,” Ivy whispered. When Geralt looked up, he expected to see scorn or pity. Instead, Ivy’s eyes were dark and sad. She knew her message had gotten through, but that wasn’t what made Geralt turn on his heel and walk away, drawing in deep, steady breaths as he all but ran to his horse. He mounted up and left Kaer Muire without a backwards glance.

Halfway down the hill he directed his horse onto a smaller path he knew would take him to the shoreline a little ways off from Holmstein. He let the mare choose her pace all the way through the snow-covered, silent forest, until her hooves rustled stones on the beach. There Geralt slid down from the saddle and staggered to a log, allowing any and all strength to slip out of his muscles as he sat down.

Geralt spent a long while staring at the sea without really seeing anything. The topmost layer of his mind was numb and frozen, but under that the pain was transforming into guilt, burning like acid as it ate him up.

He had caused this. He had fallen in love, and then allowed Regis in at the slightest nudge. He’d kept reaching for Regis’ heart, heedless of the obvious, glaring difference that hung between them. He had kept pulling Regis closer, tying them together irreversibly without sparing a thought to the inevitable end.

He would die sooner or later, and Regis would be left behind.

The mare bumped her muzzle against his cheek, and only then Geralt realized his vision was swimming. The horse blew warm air on his face as he reached a hand to wipe his eyes, refusing to acknowledge the wetness there right now.

Geralt stood up and leaned on his horse, reaching a hand to scratch behind her ears. The mare nickered softly, and suddenly Geralt remembered her name was Joy.

“Guess I need to use your real name, huh?” he murmured as he continued petting her. “Feels wrong to call you Roach when I know you have a real, pretty name.”

He allowed the warm, solid animal to ground him. He sorted through some tangles in her mane, the dark grey hair sliding between his fingers.

“I need to pull myself together,” he whispered to Joy. “Now’s not the time to wreck everything with Regis. I need to break this curse, and then I can try to come up with something.”

Even saying the words made a fresh wave of panicky hurt well inside him, and Geralt pushed it back. He kept breathing steadily, until he could contain the frantic, icy terror Ivy’s words had woken.

When it was locked away, Geralt sighed and mounted Joy once again.

“Let’s go see what Regis and Dettlaff have been up to."

 

Geralt found the two vampires near the harbor. To his surprise, Ivy’s children were with them. Gina and Aaron were apparently looking for seashells with Regis, the children sprinting up and down the beach to avoid getting wet by the waves, plucking shells out of the sand as they went. Regis stood wrapped up in his cloak, watching them with a smile, and occasionally talking about the different species of mollusks over the wind that was picking up. He waved at Geralt when the witcher walked to where Dettlaff was standing with the youngest of the trio, Rowan. The vampire was looking awkward.

“They’re going to make a necklace to Ivy,” Dettlaff said by way of greeting, inclining his head towards Gina and Aaron. Geralt chuckled, glancing at the redheaded child who was watching Regis and the older siblings intently.

Regis had explained the whole gender deal with Rowan to him earlier. Geralt hadn’t spent much time thinking that some people would prefer to have no gender at all, but he quickly concluded that it wasn’t really his business.

Rowan glanced at him with wary eyes, and Geralt made sure to keep his hands still and visible.

“Don’t feel like picking shells with your siblings?” he asked, mostly to show he wasn’t a threat. Rowan was hard to read, but Geralt had a fundamental principle of being kind to children. The species didn’t really matter.

Rowan shook their head, returning into gazing at Gina, who just then tripped over something. Her shriek was mixed with laughter as she scrambled up, too late to avoid getting her feet and dress soaked as a wave rushed in. A few snowflakes drifted down from the sky, and Geralt saw Regis glance at the clouds.

“Well, I think that concludes our afternoon. You’ve better get back home. Ivy should be back soon,” he said. Gina made a token protest, but Aaron chucked a slimy shell at her hair, and then ran away as she chased him with a handful of wet sand.

Geralt watched Regis laugh, covering his mouth to hide his fangs, and fond warmth lapped at his heart.

Gina came to a stop next to them, and gave Geralt a tight-lipped smile as she surreptitiously wiped her messy hands on her clothes.

“Have you fought any monsters yet?” she asked, reaching down to squeeze the dripping hem of her thick dress. Her braids were coming undone again.

“Nah,” Geralt said, smiling a bit. “I’m too scary, the monsters stay well away.”

Gina laughed, tucking her chin into her chest before looking at Rowan. “Roo, I found you a shell. One of the spiral ones you like.”

Rowan stepped closer to their sister, eyes wide. Gina dug a sharp spiral shell from her dress pocket, and presented it to the redhead. Rowan plucked it with careful fingers from her palm and held it up, green eyes following the spire with awe. They looked back at Gina, and swallowed.

Gina’s smile turned soft. “You’re welcome.” She turned to Regis, who walked up to them with Aaron. “What was it called, Regis? You told me the name, but I forgot already.”

Regis looked at the shell Rowan was still holding like a priceless jewel. “ _Turritella communis_. A very common species, but the shell is no less beautiful. They are actually filter feeders, which is somewhat unusual among gastropod mollusks.”

He turned to look at Aaron. “You’ll be all right now?”

Aaron nodded, offering Regis a tiny, polite smile. Geralt watched as he gathered the rest of the shells Gina was carrying into his pouch, and then the three kids walked away. Gina turned and waved at Geralt, her hair flying away in the wind.

Dettlaff watched them go, and through the bond came a mixture of confusion and something that Geralt couldn’t identify before it was gone. It wasn’t a sad feeling, but there was a melancholy note to it.

Regis stepped closer and brushed his hand against Geralt’s. He looked content.

“Hi. Is everything alright?”

Geralt smiled back, but before he could answer, a man on a horse rode towards them from the harbor, waving a hand when he spotted him. Wind was blowing towards the messenger, and his horse put back its ears once the vampires’ scent reached it. Its flanks were dark with sweat, and Geralt could tell the man had most likely been riding hard all the way to reach him.

“Witcher Geralt?” the man called out, and Geralt stepped away from Regis and Dettlaff to greet him.

“That’s me.”

The man hopped down, and immediately reached into his bag. He was wearing an Craite colors, and upon closer look Geralt could tell he’d come straight from Kaer Trolde.

“A message from the queen. She sent me, didn’t want to risk a raven. Ah, there.” The man handed him a scroll with a band of dark metal around it. “Ye need to shed a drop of blood on the ring. Otherwise it’ll catch fire.”

Geralt sighed. He tugged a gauntlet off and then nicked his finger with a knife. The band grew warm when drops of blood hit it, and a previously unseen seam opened with a faint click.

The man reached out and plucked the band from his hands, stashing it safely inside his bag once more. Geralt looked at him, and he smiled apologetically.

“Can’t let ye keep it, sorry. It belongs to Lady Leah and she’ll want it back.”

“She made that?” Geralt asked, curious. He hadn’t sensed any magic from Leah when they’d met.

“Don’t rightly know, master,” the man shrugged. “Just, she only uses those when she wants to be absolutely sure no one but the intended recipient can see the message. I suggest you burn the paper when yer done reading it.” The man mounted his horse again, and the animal made an unhappy snort when he pressed his heels into its flanks.

“Sure,” Geralt grunted, rolling the message open. The wound had closed already.

 

_Master Geralt,_

_Queen Cerys wished me to inform you that Hierophant Ermion is due to be back in Kaer Trolde in three days time. He sent a raven, informing the queen that he had uncovered something about the curse. The queen expressed a wish to have you present to hear this information._

_Leah_

 

Geralt scanned the short message again, but that was it. He wondered what was so extraordinary about Ermion’s return that the message had to be protected with magic.

“What is it?” Regis asked when he joined Geralt. The witcher presented the message to him, and Regis’ eyes flickered over the words.

“The hierophant has uncovered something,” he muttered, looking thoughtful. “Didn’t Queen Cerys tell you druid Ermion was investigating the Garden of Freya in Hindarsfjall?”

“Yeah,” Geralt said as he took the message back and flicked a faint _igni_ to burn it.

Dettlaff walked to them, and Geralt looked up. The black-haired vampire was looking like he had questions, but didn’t know if it was alright to ask them. Geralt sighed and offered him a tired smile.

“When we were looking for Ciri, Yen and I visited Hindarsfjall. The Hunt had destroyed the village of Lofoten when they pursued her.”

“Cirilla escaped?” Dettlaff asked. He was frowning, and Geralt felt an echo of a memory; Dettlaff had only met Ciri after everything, and they had gotten along well. The vampire was clearly trying to understand who the young woman really was, and to his surprise Geralt found himself warming to the idea of telling him the stories about her.

“Yeah, a young man named Skjall helped her,” Geralt told Dettlaff. “Yen and I went to the sacred garden there to look for him.”

“And? Did you find him?” Dettlaff’s eyes were wide and curious, and Geralt sensed Regis trying to reign in his questions to allow him to tell the story. He remembered he’d never actually told Regis what had happened there, and for a second he worried if the necromancy would offend either of his pack mates.

“We found his body,” Geralt continued, deciding to just get it over with. “He was killed by a cursed creature that lived in the garden. Yen performed some necromancy to get him to talk to us.”

There was an indrawn breath from Regis, and when Geralt met his eyes, they were wide and full of—respect?

“I never doubted her dedication to Cirilla, but…” Regis murmured, trailing off and looking like he had just understood something that had been bothering him.

Dettlaff cleared his throat. “Necromancy destroyed the garden?”

Geralt nodded. He was still feeling bad about it, but he knew he’d do it all over again if he had to help Ciri.

“Anyway, the garden was apparently where Ermion went. I’ve no idea where he’s been since then, but now we need to go back to Kaer Trolde.” He glanced towards the hill where Kaer Muire stood, and remembered Sága’s demand. “I have other business there as well.”

He was about to explain what had happened with the jarl, but the bond spiked with such an intense feeling he stuttered and fell silent.

Regis was looking resolutely towards the sea, but both Geralt and Dettlaff had felt the anxiety. The vampire was pursing his lips together, his face a careful mask of neutrality, but something was roiling inside him.

Dettlaff opened his mouth, looking confused, but then he sighed.

“I won’t go far,” he muttered to Geralt as he walked away.

Geralt turned back towards Regis, who was refusing to meet his eye. He glanced around, but they were alone. Snow was slowly starting to fall, and even though it was only afternoon, the light on the shoreline was growing dim as clouds rolled in.

“Come on, let’s walk,” Geralt said. His stomach was tying itself in knots as Regis nodded and turned away. What the hell was happening?

Ivy’s words floated back into his mind as he followed Regis further along the beach, towards the place where he’d fought the protofleders.

_There are things over which we have control, and that illusion holds us together._

Geralt pushed the sad voice away once more, but the feeling bled over, and Regis turned around. He still refused to look at Geralt.

“What is it?” Geralt asked. His body was screaming at him to go and hold Regis, but the vampire had crossed his arms like a protective barrier. He was as closed off as Geralt had ever seen him.

“I—” Regis muttered, looking at the sea, and falling into an uneasy silence. Snow was floating down, and the wind was picking up. Regis’ hair was escaping from the hair tie.

“There is something I haven’t told you,” Regis finally whispered. His face was pained, and he seemed to shrink inside his cloak, as if expecting to be attacked.

Geralt finally broke free from the ice that had grasped him and stepped closer. Regis swayed unconsciously towards him, but didn’t reach out. Geralt slowly lifted his hand and laid it on Regis’ shoulder. When had touching him become this difficult?

“You can tell me anything,” Geralt said. He didn’t try to make it sound like a question, but Regis flinched. He was holding so hard on his side of the bond Geralt couldn’t reach anything. There was just an agonized conflict, a blank wall that seemed to be made of tension and distress.

“Regis, please,” he whispered. He hated how it came out like begging.

_Hearts will break._

“I’m not sure I can—” Regis whispered. He finally, finally met Geralt’s eyes. Shame was creeping along the bond, and Geralt shook his head to stay in the present moment. He wanted to understand and help Regis, but the vampire had pushed him outside.

“I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong,” Geralt said. He tried and failed to hide how much it hurt to be an outsider in this, and Regis bit his lip so hard it threatened to bleed. He looked towards the village, and Geralt felt something heavy plummet through his chest, taking the last thread of hope with it.

“You want to stay here, is that it?” he asked in a flat tone.

Regis’ head snapped up and he opened his mouth, but nothing came out. There was a stronger wave of hot shame from him, and Geralt suddenly felt like an asshole once again.

He had taken and taken from Regis. How could he demand Regis to accompany him, when he’d just found a place where he was accepted just as he was?

Geralt stepped back. First one step, then several more. He drew in a deep breath, trying to pull all his hurt away from the bond. He needed to deal with his own shit, it was not Regis’ responsibility. No matter how close they were, or how much they loved each other, ultimately Geralt was responsible for his own problems.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered in a hoarse voice. “Of course you can stay.”

He turned around before the pain overwhelmed him. Regis’ breath hitched, but he remained rooted to his place. Geralt couldn’t remember when he’d last felt this alone. The bond was there, but it was thrashing, not comforting him at all.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, and then he walked away, towards the inn and the stables to get Joy.

***

Dettlaff felt the spikes of anxiety and heavy, angry sadness from both Regis and Geralt, but refrained from going back to them. He had flown to a cliff face overlooking the sea, and despite knowing that his pack was in distress, he decided to stay away for a while. Regis had been hiding something from them, but Dettlaff trusted his brother; there was most certainly a reason for the secrecy, and Regis wouldn’t do anything malicious to either of them. He’d give them time to talk, just the two of them.

Then, suddenly, the bond cracked. Dettlaff drew in a breath as wave upon wave of feeling washed over him. Geralt was trying and failing to hold back a torrent of anger, sadness, and shame. He was walking away from Regis, who took flight. Regis’ mind was quiet, with bottomless, echoing loneliness.

Dettlaff spent half a second trying to decide which of them needed him more, but something about the emptiness from Regis felt alarming. Dettlaff looked towards the direction where Geralt was going, and swore to himself he’d go to the witcher as soon as possible.

Dettlaff reached Regis only once they both landed near Ivy’s cottage. Regis materialized a short distance away, and Dettlaff caught up with him. Regis tried to twist away from him, but Dettlaff was still the stronger of the two; he grasped Regis by his arms and held on tight, forcing his brother to meet his gaze.

“Why is Geralt going away?” Dettlaff asked. He tried to avoid showing how much distress the growing distance was causing him. He’d thought Geralt was going to the inn, but his presence was waning; he’d left Holmstein on horseback.

Regis opened his mouth, but instead of words, a dry sob broke free. He looked as lost as when he’d first woken up, after Dettlaff had brought him back, and Dettlaff’s protective instincts flared. He pulled Regis into a hug, and felt the thin arms wrap around him as Regis’ posture finally crumbled.

“I want to go with him,” Regis gasped, burying his face into Dettlaff’s coat and trying to avoid descending into panic. “I don’t want him to leave.”

“What is happening? Why didn’t you tell him so?” Dettlaff held Regis, no longer restraining. He reached for the bond, and wrapped Regis’ mind inside his own. His brother was hanging on to the last vestiges of control, and Dettlaff understood it was also because this was the first time Geralt and Regis had departed on bad terms after forging the bond.

“When we were at Kaer Trolde, I made a mistake,” Regis whispered. He pulled back, and Dettlaff saw how much pain he was in. “I snuck into Geralt’s rooms, we slept together because it was easier, and the seneschal found out.”

Anger was creeping in, and Dettlaff fought to suppress it. He drew in a breath. Regis needed him sane. Regis exhaled a shaky puff of air, rubbing his eyes. “He told me that if I ever return, he’ll expose us. Geralt.”

Dettlaff drew Regis closer again as understanding ignited. Regis hadn’t told Geralt, because the witcher would have acted on this information. Regis wanted to protect his mate, but more importantly he wanted Geralt to have this place to return to in future as well.

“You should have told me, at least,” Dettlaff said. It came out gentle and tired, and he felt a measure of relief at managing to rein in the rush of anger this time.

Regis nodded. “I know. So much has been happening, and I’ve been—overwhelmed.”

Light footsteps made both of them turn around, and Ivy stepped around a wide trunk of a pine tree. Her face was worried, and she even nodded to Dettlaff without any trace of hostility.

“Regis? What’s wrong?”

Dettlaff tensed when she came closer, and Ivy stopped, regarding him warily.

“I wish to help. I care about him,” she said in a low, placating voice. Dettlaff knew Regis had been growing closer with Ivy, so he sighed and nodded, pushing away his own feelings for the time being.

He hadn’t trusted Ivy at first, and he still didn’t like her all that much, but it was plain to see Regis was starting to trust her. That should be enough for him, and apparently Geralt thought so too.

Regis accepted Ivy’s hand on his shoulder with a weary smile.

“I’ve made an awful mess of things.” He looked around the forest, eyes sad. “Geralt left back to Kaer Trolde, and he thinks I stayed behind because I wanted to stay with your family.”

Ivy’s eyes widened. “You still didn’t tell him about the seneschal?”

Dettlaff turned to look at Regis, and couldn’t help a ray of indignant surprise from escaping into the bond; Regis had told Ivy, but not him or his mate?

Regis met his eyes and nodded, guilt making his shoulders droop. “Yes. I made a mistake, and I still have no idea how to fix this.”

Dettlaff exhaled. “Why was he so distressed when he left?”

Regis closed his eyes and stepped back. His arms wrapped around himself again.

“Geralt seemed to think that I’ve come to prefer Ivy’s company. He feels...guilty about resenting her.”

Regis turned to look at Ivy. “You are becoming a friend, please don’t doubt that, but Geralt is my _home_.”

Ivy stepped closer to Regis and gently pried one of his hands free, gripping it firmly.

“Regis, I know. I had a mate,” she whispered. Dettlaff saw her fight back a rush of emotion before her eyes found him again.

“It seems I may have committed a mistake as well,” she added in a troubled voice.

“What did you do?” Dettlaff asked. The anger was coming again, and Regis felt it too. His brother let Ivy go and reached for him, the bond trying to soothe the flames.

“Ivy, please answer him,” Regis said, still looking closely at Dettlaff.

Ivy turned her face up, towards the falling snow, and stayed quiet for a long while. She looked like she was deciding something, and when she finally looked back, Dettlaff saw she was looking defeated.

“This has to do with the reason we’re living among humans,” she said, voice growing tight with emotion. Regis turned to face her again, but remained by Dettlaff’s side.

Ivy clasped her hands together, seemingly unconcerned of the snow that was sticking to her hair. The light was fading, and she looked just like an ordinary human, facing the two of them in a snowy forest.

“There is a place for our kind,” she begun, looking at Regis and Dettlaff. “North of Spikeroog is a small island, where a few of our people went over a century ago. They wished to live alone, but gradually more came.”

Regis drew in a breath as he started to understand. “Just—?”

Ivy nodded, her face very serious. “Just higher vampires. The island is warded, and no human has set foot there after it was claimed.”

She turned her gaze to Dettlaff, who could feel her hesitation in the gesture. He was certain she was telling them this against every rule she held dear, and it confused him.

“To be accepted into the community, you have to live among humans for a time, to prove you’re capable of reining in your violence. They want to keep the island safe. They are watching my family closely, because I wish to take my children to that place.”

“You’re not lying,” Regis breathed. His expression was frozen between anxiety and curiosity. “There really is a community for us.”

“Aye,” Ivy whispered. Gradually her stiff posture thawed, and she was looking tired and sad. “And the reason I’m breaking the rules now is because I can’t stand the thought that you move on without knowing about it.”

Dettlaff felt how deep the words went, even without Regis drawing in a shocked breath beside him. His brother’s mind was alight, but the undercurrent of anxiety drowned the joy of discovery as soon as it came.

“Did you say something about this to Geralt?” Regis asked, voice growing dark.

Ivy shook her head, and then faced Regis. Her face was miserable, almost pleading. “I told him he will eventually die and leave you alone. And it wasn’t anything new to him, he knows how this will end for you.”

Dettlaff managed to wrap his arms around Regis before he lashed out at Ivy, but even as he did, he knew it wasn’t needed; the swipe was without power, and as soon as Regis was held in the cage of his arms, he crumbled into the ground, drawing Dettlaff with him. For a while the only sound was the soft rush of the wind as it drove more snow their way, and then a soft, agonized sob tore free from Regis.

“He left because he thinks I don’t want to be with him, and because he—” he couldn’t finish, and Dettlaff hugged Regis closer as he broke down.

He was so angry. The blistering heat was licking at his mind, ready to burst free. The most powerful instinct inside his head was to comfort Regis, but if that need was taken away, Dettlaff knew he’d strike at Ivy. She had hurt his pack.

Ivy hadn’t moved when Regis lashed out, and now her posture was decaying. Dettlaff saw her blinking rapidly, and her lip quivered.

“What a fool I am,” she finally whispered. She took five careful steps and sank down into the snow with them, taking Regis’ hands into her own. When Regis lifted her gaze, she let her own tears fall.

“I lost my own mate, and now I’ve made a horrible mistake,” she whispered. “My wish to help you avoid heartbreak and have this chance clouded my judgement, and I can’t ask you to forgive me.”

Regis tried to say something, but the words got lost into another sob. Dettlaff tried to step on his anger, and reach for Regis via the bond, to show him nothing had been broken beyond repair yet. He needed to believe it, for Regis’ sake.

“I can’t lose him,” Regis finally gasped, after a long, drawn out silence. The tears were running out, but his mind felt hollow.

Dettlaff helped him up. To his surprise, Regis offered Ivy a hand to tug her back on her feet, too.

Ivy looked down, her face a mask of shame as she dusted snow off her dress. “I’ll help you so you won’t. If you’ll let me.”

Regis reached for her hand. Ivy looked up, surprise written all over her.

“Never do that again,” Regis said. “Never come between me and Geralt.”

It wasn’t a threat, the words were uttered in a quiet, sad voice, but Dettlaff felt their weight as they settled into the air.

He couldn’t begin to comprehend how Regis was able to look past what Ivy had done, but he was choosing to do so. Dettlaff stared at Regis, who was looking back at him.

“I don’t understand,” Dettlaff said. “How can you?”

Regis shook his head.

 

Dettlaff realized he’d followed Ivy and Regis back to her cottage only when he was actually sitting down in the main room and Ivy was pouring both of them tea. The children were upstairs, Dettlaff could hear Gina’s voice as she wove a story to Rowan, with the older boy, Aaron, occasionally interjecting.

Regis cradled his cup for a long while, and even as they didn’t utter a word, Dettlaff felt something taking shape between them. It was just a brush of intention, but he remembered feeling that in the past. There was a thread tying them together, working itself around the surrounding aether, and he wasn’t sure he liked the idea.

When he turned his eyes to Ivy, he felt like he was seeing her for the first time. She was looking out into the darkness, chin resting in her hands. Dettlaff didn’t have a clue how old she was, but there was still a whisper at the bottom of his heart that told him he was here for a reason, and Ivy was the key to that. He’d tried to ignore that whisper ever since they’d met, but now it was growing insistent again.

“What do you dream about when the nightmares come?” Dettlaff asked. Ivy flinched, but turned to face him. She stared at him for a while, and then her tension broke. Regis was watching them closely, but holding his silence.

“My children,” Ivy whispered. “My mate. Home. The last two I’ve already lost.”

Dettlaff thought of a deep, sunless well all of a sudden. Voices echoed there, but the stone walls swallowed everything; the darkness was deeper than anything, and only the cold water lapped at his heart.

The vision passed, and he shuddered. Ivy drew in a breath.

“If you allow it, I’ll come with you when you go to Geralt,” she told Regis. “I’ll apologize, and you can tell him everything I just told you.”

“You mentioned the community is watching you?” Regis prodded gently, and Ivy’s face briefly contorted with pain.

“Yes,” she whispered, closing her eyes briefly. “And I’m jeopardizing our chance to be accepted. I already have.” Her face turned stubborn and she held up a hand as Regis opened his mouth. “But I need to make this right. I created this mess, and I can’t forgive myself for hurting you.”

“But if they reject you, what will happen to Aaron, Gina, and Rowan?” Regis asked. Ivy shrugged.

“I don’t know. They take in new people so seldom, and the trial period is long. Perhaps they will overlook my mistakes when their time comes.” Her voice was heavy with regret and sorrow, and Dettlaff knew how she felt. They didn’t share a bond, but he didn’t need it to feel the gnawing grief; she’d risked so much for her adopted children to get them a safe place to live, and then one mistake could have undone it all. A mistake committed out of hope.

He didn’t want to feel for her, not when she’d hurt Geralt and Regis so much, but he couldn’t help it. He understood the reasoning, because she had wanted to extend a chance of that improbable hope to Regis, as well. And if Dettlaff was honest with himself, he hated himself for understanding her; who was he loyal to, his pack, or a stranger?

A memory resurfaced, and for a moment he was young again, watching a familiar face snarl at him, accusing and demanding, _pushing_. Tension coiled inside, and he was just about to answer the memory when Regis’ hand landed on his arm. Dettlaff blinked, and saw both Regis and Ivy were watching him with identical frowns.

“What is it?” Regis asked.

Dettlaff shook his head. Regis must have felt the vision come and go, but Dettlaff had kept those memories to himself too long to share them.

“How will we fix this?” he asked instead, addressing both Regis and Ivy.

Ivy blinked at him, clearly having expected more anger and accusations. Dettlaff ignored her, but deep inside he admitted he was tired of being angry all the time; he wanted to break the curse, he wanted his pack to be whole and happy again, and he even found himself wishing Ivy and her children would come out of this mess alright.

Regis heaved a massive, exhausted sigh. “I can’t fly to Geralt. It would attract too much attention. I have to ride back to Kaer Trolde.”

Dettlaff knew there was sense in Regis’ words, but his core recoiled at the thought of letting this sit too long. Geralt was alone, and he was most certainly hurting.

Ivy cleared her throat awkwardly. “If you’ll permit, I’ll come with you when you go. Aaron is more than capable of watching Gina and Rowan for a few days.”

She turned to face Dettlaff, and this time her face was calm and collected, as if she’d reached some kind of a solution with her own inner conflict. “I’ll talk with the witcher. I’ll apologize.”

Dettlaff stared at her, and again the whisper reached for his conscious mind. He pushed it aside, nodding.

“Do what you wish.”

Regis brushed against his mind, thankful and soothing.

“If at all possible, I’d like to handle this so that you won’t lose your chance to go to the community,” he said to Ivy. “What you did was wrong, but you had my wellbeing in mind.”

Ivy looked down and nodded, but her posture sagged again. Dettlaff suddenly remembered her words about her mate, and wondered what could have happened to them.

Regis turned back to Dettlaff. “You can fly to him,” he said. His voice didn’t break, but his mind guttered with pain. “If you could go to him and tell him I’m coming—”

“Of course,” Dettlaff said.

He wished it would have been full moon. Flying in his mist form was faster than going on horseback, but it wasn’t instantaneous by any means, and doing it for long distances was tiring. Had the moon been full, he could have shifted into a bat and reach Geralt in a matter of hours.

“I’ll go to him,” Dettlaff assured Regis, and his brother offered him a thankful smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (please don't hate me)  
> ಥ_ಥ


	9. Depths

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for making so many people sad with previous chapter. I'd like to say it will immediately get better, but I'd be lying.  
> ಥ◡ಥ
> 
> Beta by [Tsurai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsurai/pseuds/tsurai) who has to listen to me moaning about the ever-increasing number of chapters and how certain vampires make my life bloody difficult. (╯°□°)╯︵ ┻━┻

After riding for a few hours Geralt realized that he was acting stupidly. He could have waited for morning, at least, instead of setting out when sunset was only a few hours away. The road from Holmstein to Kaer Trolde was in good condition, but it was still the middle of the winter.

Joy was glad to slow down to a walk, and Geralt wiped the sweat from his face. The mare had enjoyed running after being cooped up for several days, but Geralt didn’t have the heart to spur her on any longer. They’d both freeze to death if it got cold and they had to stop.

“I’m a right fucking idiot,” he muttered. His heart was hurting, and more than anything he wanted to turn back and go beg for forgiveness. There was no way he’d be able to leave Regis for a longer period of time. It wasn’t only the bond that was making him miserable; Geralt missed the easy way they had existed together up until arriving to Skellige. Love had been essential and something which they both had relied on, and now everything had become so confusing.

Geralt remembered how stricken Regis had looked when Geralt had blurted out the worst possible words earlier, and a fresh wave of pain made him gasp. He could still feel the bond, pulsing at the back of his head, but he wasn’t sure if it was calling him back or reminding him how he’d hurt his mate. He’d never asked Regis how the bond would work if they were physically apart like this, and now he was feeling nauseous.

As a last resort, Geralt tried to pull back a bit. He still had the curse to break, and he was needed in Kaer Trolde. He’d be of no use if half his brain was preoccupied with a continuous distress signal.

He tried to imagine himself inside a room with several doors and windows. He pictured himself closing them one by one, reaching for the calm place of meditation. At first, nothing happened, but then the alarm started to fade; by the time he locked the last door inside his head, he was feeling more centered.

Geralt opened his eyes. Joy was following the road, ears pricked forwards. Geralt blinked, and for a while his head felt like a cold wind blew through it. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt this alone; the bond had been inside his head for so many months, and he’d never felt the need to close it off. Now he’d somehow managed to isolate himself from the continuous ebb and flow of his pack. It left him able to think more clearly, but with that clarity came a sadness that gripped him gently.

He didn’t want to be alone.

His eyes stung again, but Geralt breathed until the feeling went away. He’d open the bond again when he had calmed down and solved this mess. He knew Regis would feel him pull off, but he hoped the vampire would take it as a sign of Geralt trying to give him some space.

He ended up riding through the night at a brisk pace, alternating between a walking gait and letting Joy run when she felt like it. He stopped for half an hour at a roadside inn to get some food for himself and water and oats for Joy, and then continued. 

Morning sun was just starting to color the clouds in the eastern horizon crimson when he crested a peak, and Kaer Trolde harbor came into view. Geralt paused there, watching over the valley, letting Joy catch her breath and droop her ears. The village was mostly still, but lights were coming on in windows one by one, and early morning cold hung over everything, interspersed with smoke rising from chimneys. The harbor was already filling with fishermen who trudged through snowy paths towards their boats, getting ready to head out.

Geralt’s eyes fell on the biggest ship moored on the docks. There was a light on the window he knew belonged to Walma, and Geralt heaved a sigh. He missed having someone he could talk with, someone who wasn’t living half inside his head. With the bond only a faint hum in the background, he was seeing it more clearly.

Geralt left Joy with a young boy who promised to see to her, and tried to work out a cramp from his back. He’d been riding all night, and his body felt like it was put together slightly wrong. The cold was making his old knee injury flare up. He turned towards Arlene, and as he walked, he tried to come up with a way to address the request made by Jarl Sága.

He had exactly zero hope that Marja Darling would help him if he simply asked. The woman had taken them on, but Geralt had a doubt that the real bargaining chip she’d obtained was their secret. The money had been secondary, because now captain Darling knew she had leverage over a witcher. How she would use it was unclear, but Geralt had spent enough time dealing with Emhyr var Emreis to know that intelligent and powerful people often collected people this way.

Walma walked to the deck just as Geralt came to a stop next to the ship. The gangplank was up, but as soon as he whistled, the redhead’s sleepy face split into a grin. Walma leaned over the railing, beaming at him.

“Oi, pretty boy, looking for something?”

“Breakfast wouldn’t be bad,” Geralt answered, loud enough to be heard over the creaking of wood.

“Might be doable,” Walma laughed. She heaved a rope ladder over the railing, and Geralt clambered up. He could hear more voices coming from the cabins under the deck, and wondered what the crew had been up to after arriving to Kaer Trolde.

The mess was familiar and warm, and the few women sitting on the table greeted him with sleepy smiles. Walma vanished for a moment, and came back with porridge and tea, and as Geralt stripped off the heaviest of layers, he realized how stiff and cold he was. His head still felt empty and sad, but he tried to focus on the food.

“You’ve been busy,” Walma remarked good-naturedly after a while. Geralt shrugged and managed a smile.

“Part of the job. We’ve been down in Holmstein for almost a week.”

“You and Regis both?” Walma asked, stifling a yawn. Geralt nodded, not elaborating, and Walma sighed.

“I was hoping we’d depart, but cap has some business here that isn’t going so swimmingly.” She fell silent, and then whispered: “The nightmares have everyone on edge.”

Geralt saw the dark circles under Walma’s eyes, and under her customary bravado was something wavering; Geralt could guess what her dreams were showing her.

“I have some clues,” he said, sipping his tea and trying to chase away the worst chill. His knee kept pulsing with pain as his joints gradually warmed up. “But it might be wisest to get the hell out of here, because I can’t make any promises how long this’ll take.”

“Civilians are getting rowdy,” a deep voice said, and Usamea dropped onto the bench on Geralt’s left. She looked thinner than a week ago.

“They are?” Geralt asked, shaking her offered hand. The elf nodded thoughtfully, scratching the scar where her missing ear would have been.

“Aye. The village had three nights in a row when the screams could be heard all the way here. It’s bad, _ Gwynbleidd _ .”

“I know,” Geralt said. He looked down, still indecisive on how to broach the topic about Marja Darling, when Walma nudged him.

“Where’s your man, then? I thought you and Regis were traveling together.”

A twinge of pain passed through Geralt’s head, and he tried to ignore the hollow spot inside his chest.

“He...stayed behind. Got some of his own stuff to deal with,” Geralt said. He aimed for a neutral tone, and apparently missed by several feet, because Walma frowned and her eyes grew worried, and Usamea slipped off the bench with a muttered  _ “Catch ye later, witcher.” _

“What happened?” Walma asked. Her hand hovered for a second, and then she laid it on top of his. The gesture was gentle, and it didn’t ask for anything. Geralt couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a person like Walma in his life, who platonically cared just because they happened to like each other.

To his horror, he felt his throat grow tight, and he spent several seconds trying to swallow the panic. He wouldn’t lose Regis, they would make up. Somehow, and soon.

“We had an argument,” he finally muttered. “I behaved like an asshole, because I didn’t like one of his friends.”

“Hm.” Walma’s frown deepened. “You never mentioned he had friends in Skellige.”

“They only just met, but…” Geralt swallowed again. “But they have some things in common, something I can’t take part in, and—”

Walma cut him off with a sad smile and a shake of her head. “Are you jealous?”

Geralt shrugged. “Not in a way you think, no.”

Walma cocked her head. “So what’s the matter? When you were sailing with us, it looked like you were able to talk openly about stuff.”

“I’m afraid I’ll lose him,” Geralt blurted out, without meaning to. He wished he could reach out a hand and pick the words back, but it was too late. He looked down at his empty tea mug, trying to breathe steadily, hoping that his face wouldn’t betray how scared he really was. Witchers weren’t meant to feel fear, but apparently this kind of terror reached them as well.

Walma stayed quiet for a long while. When Geralt finally hazarded a look, she met his eye with a small smile. She squeezed his hand carefully.

“We can’t tie our loves down,” she finally murmured. “If their happiness requires something we can’t give, it’s not our business to hold on to them.” Her smile widened a bit and some of the heavy sadness lifted, and to his surprise Geralt found himself mirroring the expression.

“But it’s not right to let go of a love if they wish to stay, either,” she added, her voice no longer hoarse with memories. “Ellanore spent years thinking I was about to vanish into the night, and I tried and tried to tell her I was happy. True, living in one place and working on a farm wasn’t nearly as exciting as robbing rich people, but I was happy with her, and it was all that mattered.”

“Did she believe you, in the end?” Geralt asked. Walma laughed as she wiped her eyes.

“She did. We built a home, we both chose to give up some things to be together, and we were happy for the years we had together.”

Walma heaved a sigh. “You and Regis need to talk. Face to face, with none of this curse business disturbing you. You can solve this.”

“Yeah,” Geralt sighed.

The door opened and hit the wall, and cold air blew through the mess. Geralt turned around, and he saw Marja Darling standing in the doorway, her wide-brimmed hat blocking most of the light.

“Are we letting strangers onto the ship nowadays, hmm?” she asked, her voice cool.

“Forgot about me so soon?” Geralt asked, turning properly around and standing up. 

Marja Darling grinned, but there was an edge to her smile. “There is a reason we keep to ourselves, witcher.”

Silence fell, and Geralt felt Walma shift next to him. He hoped she wouldn’t be in trouble for letting him come in.

“May I be of help, master witcher?” Marja finally asked, stepping inside and closing the door. The mess was plunged into dimness once again, and Geralt’s sight adjusted; Marja was watching him very closely, and he felt the atmosphere change. There was a charge now, where seconds ago had only been sleepy chatter.

“Yeah, actually,” he said, keeping his tone level. “I have some questions, and I hoped we could talk in private.”

“We are private enough,” Marja Darling said casually. Her gaze slowly circulated the mess, and even when Geralt couldn’t see everyone present, he heard the shifting of clothes as the women stiffened.

“Alright,” Geralt said. “I’ve no doubt you know I’m trying to break the curse that’s bringing nightmares to Skellige.”

Marja Darling continued looking at him, not acknowledging his words in any way. To Geralt’s left, Walma shifted again. Her breathing was even but shallow.

“I went to Holmstein, just came back this morning. While I was there, I talked with the jarl.”

Marja Darling grinned and held up her hand.

“I changed my mind, witcher. We’ll talk in my room. Come.”

Geralt followed the captain, satisfaction mixing with apprehension as he stepped out to the deck. He’d guessed Marja wouldn’t want to discuss the issue in front of her crew, but speaking in private meant there would be no witnesses if something nasty happened. Not that Geralt had held much hope for any of the crew speaking up for him, except maybe Walma.

Marja Darling held open the door to her cabin with a mocking flourish, and then Geralt heard the lock click. He turned to face the captain, and Marja’s smile dropped immediately.

“Why in the everloving hell are you interested in my dealings?” she asked. Her voice was still even, but Geralt saw her face darken with anger.

“Jarl Sága needs to prove her ancestry, and she happens to know who holds the key to that,” Geralt said without any preamble. 

“And why would she think so, hm?” Marja asked. She crossed her arms and leaned on the door, eyes stubbornly fixed on him.

“Heard something from someone, doesn’t really interest me,” Geralt grunted. “What matters is I need her help to break this curse, and she needs the medallion of Kvasir for that.”

Marja scoffed, an incredulous grin twisting her mouth. “And you’re honestly thinking I will help you, just because you ask? Come now, witchers don’t work free, so how can you imagine a pirate would?”

Her grin widened when Geralt lifted an eyebrow. “Let us not pretend. Your man Regis somehow knew who I am, who my crew are. We’ve been doing well after the war, because Nilfgaard has better things to do than hunt down pirates, and Skellige gives us shelter when we need it.”

“I’m not interested in exposing you,” Geralt said with exasperation. “You can ask Usamea if you want. I just need that damn medallion. I’ll pay you for it, if that’s the problem.”

“Usamea certainly seems more trusting with you than is her habit,” Marja sighed. “But it’s not like you could expose us, not without ruining your own reputation. And that would only leave you and Regis cast into the bright light, while we disappeared back into the fog for a year or two.”

Geralt had known he had essentially bought their passage by letting Marja Darling see who Regis was to him, but hearing it laid out like that made a spike of nausea hit him in the gut. How many times would he lead Regis to danger before he learned?

“As I said, I’ll pay for the locket,” Geralt repeated, hoping to put the matter of exposing each other to rest. He’d deal with that fallout later.

“And I am not selling.” Marja’s smile fell again, and she straightened up. She always looked proud, but now Geralt saw where her authority truly came from. There was something regal about her posture, and when she spoke, it was with absolute certainty in herself. For a second, Geralt wondered who she’d been before she became a pirate.

“That trinket belongs to the ruler of Skellige.”

“Yeah, I heard the tale,” Geralt sighed. “So you’re selling it to Cerys?”

“I might, at some point.”

“Speak plainly. I’ve been up all damn night.”

Marja rolled her eyes. “Do you think I got where I am today by charity? I have a crew to look after, and a life to live.”

“You just said Skellige offers you shelter,” Geralt said. His knee was starting to throb with pain once more, and his head was aching; it felt like the bond was trying to push back at him.

“Geralt, please,” Marja Darling said, and now her tone grew angry. “The queen of Skellige has officially nothing to do with pirates, while she’s busy bending the knee to Emhyr var Emreis. Were the emperor to ask, Cerys an Craite would sell all of us out in a heartbeat. We’re welcome in Kaer Trolde only when there is no bounty on my head, and that would be remedied the second I went gallivanting to the keep. I have enemies here as well, and they would rejoice in seeing my head on the block.”

Geralt rubbed his eyes, trying to push back the headache. Something was tugging at his brain, and the feeling was growing almost painful. Someone was looking for him, but he needed to get this right before he could give in and allow the bond to swallow him.

“What are you trying to do here, Marja? You won’t help me, you won’t help Cerys or Sága. Whose side are you on?”

“On my own, you imbecile,” Marja said. “Or on no one’s, like you were supposed to be. ‘Witcher neutrality,’ my ass. You’ve been so busy running Emhyr’s errands for the past years you forgot to look out for your own.”

“Fuck you,” Geralt growled before he could stop himself. A flash of pain made his eyesight blur for a second, and when his eyes focused again, Marja was smiling coldly at him.

“I believe that concludes our business. I wish you luck in finding a vessel that will take you on to sail back to the Continent.”

Geralt blinked as Marja threw open the door. “Get off my ship.”

Sunlight stabbed his eyes after the dim cabin. Geralt drew in a breath, and before he could reorient himself, Walma was by his side.

“What happened?”

“I’d suggest you remember where you stand, Walma,” a voice called out behind Geralt. Walma flinched and took a step back from him, just as Marja Darling followed him out onto the deck.

“The Free Company has its rules, and you swore to follow my lead when you set sail with us.”

“Aye, so I did,” Walma said. She drew in a breath, as if steeling herself. “But won’t we help him?”

“No.” Marja’s voice was a mix of triumph and anger. “The witcher is no longer welcome aboard Arlene.”

Walma’s eyes widened. Geralt shook his head at her, trying to signal that he would go willingly, but Walma turned to stare at her captain.

“He got us passage! He helped. Regis helped us, too. Don’t the rules of the Free Company state that debts must be paid?”

Marja crossed the distance much faster than Geralt could have guessed. Her hand reached out and then stroked Walma’s cheek gently.

“One word more, and you won’t sail with us any longer,” Marja murmured, her voice sweet and cold.

She stepped back from Walma, who was suddenly so pale she looked like she’d faint. Women who had been standing around her were backing off, casting glances to her and Geralt. Marja Darling looked at Geralt.

“You have ten seconds to fuck off, or she follows you over the railing.”

 

Geralt’s feet hit the dock’s frozen wood, and his bad knee almost gave out from under him. His head was boiling over with anger, and the pain was getting worse by the second. He took a second to draw in a deep breath, but nausea gripped him as he tried to calm down. His stomach cramped, and he slammed a hand in front of his mouth.

He wasn’t entirely sure how he made it to the end of the docks, but there his knees buckled. He heard people nearby gasp, someone shouting for help, and he only vaguely felt the impact as he hit the ground. His head was feeling like someone was driving a hot drill into it, the base of his skull a second away from splitting.

He must’ve let out a sound, because he could hear a woman gasp and scramble off from where she had squatted down next to him. There was a violent  _ twist  _ inside his head, and blood spurted from his nostrils, hot and salty. He gasped, tasting copper and cold, and just when Geralt was certain he’d either die or lose his mind, strong hands turned him over and a cool hand touched his forehead.

There was a second of vertigo that made his stomach cramp again, and then the pain started to loosen its grip. The hand brushed his hair from his face, all the while driving the splitting agony away, and Geralt managed to draw in a gasp of fresh air.

“It’s alright. Let it go, stop fighting it,” a familiar voice murmured, and Geralt realized he’d screwed his eyes shut. When he pried them open, Dettlaff’s face swam into view, and the world seemed to settle back into its place.

He lay there, gasping, and only vaguely registered Dettlaff telling the people who had gathered that everything was alright. When the last guard finally left, glancing over his shoulder with a worried frown, Dettlaff offered Geralt a hand and helped him sit up.

“How are you feeling?” he asked. He looked drawn and pale, but seeing him put Geralt’s mind more at ease than he’d been for a day.

“Like shit,” Geralt grunted. His nose was still bleeding, and he pinched the bridge to make it stop. His head was no longer hurting, and the bond was rippling with Dettlaff’s worry.

“I came after you, but then you shut us out,” Dettlaff said quietly. “It took me a while to find you.”

“What happened?” Geralt asked.

“The bond is not supposed to be shut off like that,” Dettlaff said. He moved out of the way when Geralt finally scrambled to his feet. He was feeling like he was half an hour away from collapsing out of exhaustion.

“It is possible to get privacy from it, but putting a tourniquet on it, so to speak, will result in what you just experienced,” Dettlaff continued in a cautious tone. He dug out a handkerchief and offered it to Geralt, who nodded his thanks. Guilt was eating him up.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

Dettlaff gave him a crooked smile. “I imagine you gave Regis quite a start.”

“I’ve messed everything up,” Geralt muttered, not managing to meet Dettlaff’s eye, then. He remembered the black-haired vampire saying Geralt was the best possible mate for Regis, and the memory hurt. He’d certainly been doing his best to prove Dettlaff wrong.

“Both of you need to talk, I imagine,” Dettlaff sighed.

Geralt shook his head, trying to clear the remaining fog. He needed to make plans, and with Dettlaff here, he suddenly got an idea.

“Listen, before I can go back to Regis, I need to go speak with Cerys and Ermion,” Geralt said in a low voice. “And I could use your help, too.”

“What can I do?” Dettlaff asked with a frown. He looked like he wanted to say something more, but Geralt pressed on. If he started to think about Regis now, he’d be in the same situation that drove him to shut the bond off last night.

“The captain we sailed with, you remember her?” Geralt asked, and Dettlaff nodded with an unhappy frown. “She’s in possession of an old artefact I need to break this curse.”

“She refused to help you?” Dettlaff asked, and Geralt shook his head.

“She’s a pirate. She probably knows to expect me, but you could sneak onto Arlene and look for it.”

Dettlaff gave a small nod. “I can do that. What am I looking for? And what will you do in the meantime?”

“I’ve got to talk with Cerys,” Geralt said. A short search through his pockets revealed the drawing of the medallion, which he offered to Dettlaff. “Here. The captain as good as told me it’s on Arlene. Just be careful you’re not seen.”

Dettlaff lifted an eyebrow and almost smiled. “I’m very good at that.”

Geralt actually chuckled. His stomach was still twisted into a knot of guilt and anxiety, and Dettlaff of all people in the world managing to ease that made him feel off-balance; still, it was a massive improvement to his state half an hour ago.

“Why are you here?” Geralt asked, as Dettlaff folded the paper into his pocket. The vampire looked up, looking genuinely puzzled. Geralt noticed his hair wasn’t as neatly combed as usual.

“You left so quickly, but I wanted to make sure you were alright,” Dettlaff said slowly, as if choosing his words with great care. “And as I said, you and Regis really need to talk. There’s been a misunderstanding.”

Geralt looked down. He tried to reach for Regis, but the distance was too great; the bond was back to normal, but he felt Regis’ absence keenly. 

A brush of comfort drew his eyes back up, making the feeling of being off-balance intensify for a second. Dettlaff was watching him closely, eyes framed by a worried frown.

“Nothing has been broken beyond repair. Regis is coming, but he needs to ride here.” Dettlaff sighed. “And Ivy is coming too. She wants to explain herself.”

The words melted some part of the icy misery inside Geralt’s chest. 

“He’s coming?” Geralt asked, not daring to believe it.

“Regis wanted to come with you,” Dettlaff corrected him. “There was something he didn’t tell you.”

Geralt had known it in his gut, but hearing it spoken aloud made it more real; for a brief moment, he wondered how many secrets Regis was still keeping from him.

“He did it to protect you,” Dettlaff added. He looked like he was regretting what he’d said. “Please believe me, he didn’t mean things to turn out like this.”

Something in the worried frown made Geralt pause. Dettlaff looked like he was angry with himself, and Geralt didn’t want that. There were too many hurt feelings already.

“Relax. I believe you.” Geralt aimed for a casual tone. “Thanks for coming.”

Dettlaff blinked, and clearly didn’t have a clue how to respond. 

Geralt looked towards the keep. “I’ll get going. Come find me when you’re done. Tell the guards you’re a friend of mine. They’ll come get me.”

Dettlaff opened his mouth, but after a short consideration he nodded. The worried lines smoothed out, and he reached out a hand to squeeze Geralt’s shoulder before walking away. 

Geralt watched him go, and then turned around. Clouds were drawing in, drowning out the rising sun. The snowfall had never really begun, and Geralt suspected the skies would remedy the situation soon.

Sure enough, by the time Geralt found Joy and had paid the boy for feeding and brushing her, the first snowflakes had begun to float down. The morning had been still and calm, but with the first flakes came a sigh of wind from the sea. The last line of red sky vanished as Geralt mounted the mare, and soon he was shivering in the saddle as the wind brought snow down in earnest.

He reached the first bridge and stopped for a while, because Joy was slowing down. She put her ears back as Geralt hopped down from the saddle, walking both of them under the roof of the bridge.

“Hey, girl,” Geralt muttered as the mare whinnied unhappily. “Just a lot of snow coming down. You’ll be home soon.” He stroked the damp neck, holding onto the reins. Wind was picking up, and Geralt tugged the scarf higher. Feeling the soft material brought back memories of how he and Regis had stood pressed together almost in this very same place. Geralt had been so in love, then. He’d been happy.

Geralt dragged himself back into the present moment. He was still in love, and he’d fix everything. He tried to send that feeling to Regis, no matter the distance. He missed the constant hum of the bond when they were together. He was feeling untethered without it.

The sound of hooves made him look up, and a moment later a rider came to a hasty stop next to him, covered in snow. Geralt recognized Leah only when she dragged her hood off and her hair spilled free in messy waves.

“Geralt!” she exclaimed, unmounting with grace even on the slippery planks. “Something is not right.”

“Leah,” Geralt greeted her. Joy snorted and tried to whisk her head.

“I received word you’d come back,” Leah said. She was pale, and her eyes kept darting back towards the direction she had come from, up the hill. “Something is happening.”

“What do you mean?” Geralt asked.

“Nightmares came last night,” Leah said, raising her voice to be heard over the wailing wind. “And they were worse than ever. I have never heard so many people wake up screaming. And once the dawn broke, some people didn’t wake up. They stayed in an uneasy slumber, moaning and writhing. I couldn’t rouse any of them.”

“When was this?” Geralt demanded. Joy tugged at the reins again, and Geralt tried to keep her calm as more snow flew down on them.

“About two hours ago. We’ve been calling for the druids, but they’re ways off still. There is something dark in the keep.” Leah swallowed heavily and then waved a hand around, indicating the worsening snowstorm. “This weather isn’t natural, something is blocking out daylight.”

“What?” Geralt groaned. He exhaled and tried to think. “Where’s Cerys? Hjalmar?”

“Both stayed at the keep. Hjalmar is going to ride out to get Ermion.”

“I’m going to go up, see what I can do,” Geralt said, turning back towards wickering Joy. He got back into the saddle, and tried to keep the horse still. Her ears were flat against her head, and she kept pacing.

“Please be careful,” Leah said. “This is something powerful.”

Geralt nodded, and then he kicked Joy into a run. The horse whinnied as they came out from the roof of the bridge, and snow hit them in earnest. Geralt glanced up, and saw what Leah had meant; the clouds were coiling around Kaer Trolde, like something was pulling them in. Even when it was mid-morning, everything was dim, like evening had arrived hours in advance.

Joy’s hooves kept slipping on the steep slope that took them through the tunnel, and Geralt felt bad for her. He spurred her on, trying to form a plan, but the truth was he felt out of his depth. A magic powerful enough to alter weather like this meant someone he stood little chance against. Still, he had to try.

He got the first inkling something was wrong when he saw people crowding at the end of the tunnel. Daylight was fading, but Geralt saw most of them weren’t wearing outdoor clothes. Women and men were huddling together, clamoring, and Geralt had to unmount to get through the crowd. He threw Joy’s reins to a guard. 

Suddenly there was a scream from the bridge, and the people seemed to collectively draw in on themselves. Geralt tried to peer over their heads, but he saw nothing, only a few people running towards the shelter of the tunnel.

The wind almost knocked him down when he stepped out to the bridge. More and more people were running out of the keep, and there were more shouts coming from the courtyard. Geralt grit his teeth and pushed against the wind, squinting to see through the flying snow as he made his way over.

He spied Hjalmar the second he stepped inside the walls. Cerys’ brother was standing on the steps, bellowing orders and looking haggard. People jostled Geralt as he tried to make his way to him.

“Hjalmar!” Geralt roared over the noise.

Hjalmar turned around and his eyes grew wide with a mixture of relief and agitation.

“Geralt,” he growled when the witcher drew near. “We’re in deep shite here.”

“What’s happening?” Geralt’s fingers itched for the silver sword. 

“Something bad,” Hjalmar said. “The nightmares gripped people, and they’re still inside.”

“Why are you getting all these people out?”

“Because of that,” Hjalmar said, pointing inside the keep. He was growing paler by the minute.

Geralt looked through the massive doors, and after a second he saw it, too: a shadow was slowly creeping along the walls and floors, enveloping everything. It lacked shape and substance, but everything about it screamed ‘danger.’

“What the fuck is that?” Geralt asked. As if on cue, his medallion started to tremble faintly.

“No idea, but it took over the keep, and we can’t get back in.”

“What do you mean, can’t get in?” Geralt asked. The shadow was slipping down over the walls, and it didn’t look solid.

Hjalmar shook his head. “We just can’t. If you get near enough, it fills your head with horrible visions. One boy jumped, after he had tried to go in for his sister.”

That explained the scream. Geralt drew in a breath.

“I’m going. Cerys is still inside, isn’t she?”

“Aye, she insisted on seeing to the last people with Oddleifr.” Hjalmar said. His face twisted with a grimace. “But  _ I _ can’t get to her, and she’s my sister.”

“I’m a witcher,” Geralt said, turning towards the shifting miasma that was creeping along the corridor. He didn’t know if it would do him any good, being a witcher, but he had to try. Cerys had asked for his help.

He started walking. The guards scattered from his way, and then he was alone. Geralt glanced back, and Hjalmar met his eyes with his teeth clenched together. He looked hopeful and terrified. Geralt turned towards the keep, and tried to reach for Dettlaff. He didn’t know if it would do him any good, so he drew in a deep breath and stepped into the shadow.

It was the curse. He knew right away that it was exactly the thing the soothsayer had mentioned, and what he had experienced in his nightmares. The hollow cold seeped into him, and Geralt struggled to keep walking. He unsheathed the silver sword, and the runewords flashed in the gloom. 

He managed to reach the hallway without an incident, but as soon as he stepped inside, he felt nausea crawl up his throat. Something was trying very hard to get to him, and there was a trace of the oily, unfamiliar magic he’d felt in the tunnel under the Temple Isle. It wasn’t the same rotting horror, but something more subtle.

Geralt looked around, but the shadow was wrapping around him. He heard faint whispers, and he tried to ignore them. He kept walking, aiming his steps towards the great hall, and the whispering got louder. It sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place the voices. Half-formed words crawled inside his head, and at their heels came a nameless, shapeless feeling.

It swept through him without a warning, and suddenly the voices were inside his head, and his vision begun to swim. One second he was looking at the steps leading to the halls, the next—

_ Ciri, lying motionless, pale, and cold on the hard bunk. The sound of the dwarves’ footsteps receded in his ears, and his chest was growing so cold _ —

_ Water lapping at his chest as he held Yen, the knife gleaming on the edge of the pool, and eating him was the knowledge that he’d failed to save Ciri _ —

_ Stygga, all chaos and blood, and he was always too late _ —

_ Dettlaff rushing at them both, Regis’ shout, claws that move much too fast, and then he watches Regis fall down _ —

_ No,  _ a small voice said inside his head.  _ That’s not how it went.  _

Geralt gasped, blinking frantically. He was on his hands and knees, and the shadow was coiling around him. He wrenched himself up, gripping his sword with both hands, hard enough to mask the shaking.

“That’s not how it went,” he growled.

He needed to get to the place of power. There had been something odd about the place when he’d visited the stone with Cerys, and the curse seemed to emanate from deeper within the rocky isle. It came and went in waves, and each time that nightmare crested, Geralt had to lean on a wall to avoid toppling over. His head was inflamed with the visions, it was impossible to tell them apart from each other, but they left his heart racing as cold sweat begun beading on his forehead.

He lost time, or maybe his head caved under the pressure, but suddenly Geralt found himself standing in front of the door he recognized; it led to the tunnels. He tried to reach back for a memory of how he’d made his way to the heart of the keep, but found nothing. Another swarm of visions overcame him, and his stomach heaved.

Geralt dragged the door open, and the cold damp of the rough-hewn stone walls joined the clammy nightmare dragging him down. He tried to walk fast, but every now and then he had to lean on the walls to catch his breath and fight the nightmares away from his head.

Finally the cavern opened in front of him, and he saw the runestone glowing in the dark. Two figures were standing in front of it.

Cerys was staring at the stone with wide, vacant eyes. Her lips were moving, but no sounds came out. Oddleifr was trying to pull her away, but she refused to move.

“Cerys, please,” the man begged, not noticing Geralt. “We have to go! This place is bad!”

“Is she alright?” Geralt asked. His voice was hoarse, but it made Oddleifr jump. Something flashed in his eyes, but it vanished as soon as he looked back at Cerys.

“She’s not hearing me,” Oddleifr said. His skin was glistening with pained sweat, and Geralt saw he was shaking. “She came here, and Hjalmar told me to watch out for her, to get her out in time—”

Another wave of visions came, then, stronger than before. Geralt staggered back, trying to outshout the voices taking over his head by reminding himself he was in Skellige, and not at Stygga, not in the Isle of Mists, not in Kaer Morhen. When his vision cleared enough to allow him to stand up, Oddleifr was looking at Cerys with panic in his eyes.

“Cerys, come, I can’t leave you here.”

“Cerys?” Geralt whispered, stepping next to her.

Cerys was pale as a ghost, her face a stiff mask of focused terror. When Geralt stepped even closer, he finally made out her words.

“I had to save them. It was my responsibility. All dead. It will be on me. My people, my family.” Her voice choked off, a sob coming from deep in her lungs.

Geralt grabbed her and forcibly spun her around.

“Cerys, listen to me,” he growled. “It’s not true. Whatever you’re seeing is not true.”

Cerys blinked, and then her eyes focused. She blinked and started to shake.

“Geralt?” her voice was only an echo of its usual cadence.

“That’s right,” Geralt said, rubbing her arms. “Come back.”

“I needed to get the people to safety,” Cerys whispered, looking around the cavern.

“Hjalmar got the people out,” Geralt said, stepping back when it looked like Cerys wouldn’t fall over. “We need to get the hell out of here, now.”

“Oh Freya, my head,” Cerys groaned, rubbing her eyes. “There is something evil trying to force its way in.”

“Come, let’s go,” Oddleifr begun, but at the same time a hiss emanated from the darkness, and Geralt’s medallion started shaking harder.

He’d seen the tunnel leading deeper into the mountain, blocked by a old door. He hadn’t really paid it much mind last time, but now dragging footfalls were drawing closer. Geralt’s heart lurched when he saw the door was cracked open.

“Cerys,” he whispered. “Where does that door lead?”

Cerys looked up from the ground, her fingers gripping her sword hilt with white knuckles.

“It’s locked,” she rasped. “It leads to the heart of the mountain, and out of the keep. It’s an old escape route.”

“The door is open,” Geralt hissed. The sounds were becoming louder, and he heard a chitter. Even before he saw the red glow he guessed what was coming.

Cerys’ eyes widened. “Only I have the key.”

“Whatever, you need to get out of here, now,” Geralt growled. He snatched up a vial of vampire oil, which he had taken to carrying around after the protofleders had attacked him. He made quick work of coating his blade, and when he looked up, he saw Cerys was still standing there.

“It’s some kind of monsters, innit?” she whispered.

“Yeah, and you don’t stand a damn chance against them,” Geralt shot back, tugging a stopper off a flask of Black Blood. He threw it all back, because he’d need that edge. His liver might croak, but if the vampires got past him, a lot more people would die.

Cerys drew her sword, and Geralt suppressed a groan. At the same time the glow intensified, and the first protofleder nudged the door ajar. It scented the air, and Geralt heard Cerys gasp.

Oddleifr, who up until now had stood silent, let out a low moan. Geralt spared a glance at the man, and saw he was white as a ghost. He was wearing a shortsword at his hip, but his hands were shaking.

Cerys saw it too. With three quick strides she was standing by Oddleifr.

“Listen,” she ground out. “You need to pull it together, we need your blade in this too—”

“Get out, now!” Geralt barked. The cavern wasn’t big, and the protofleders were slowly creeping out from the tunnel. The red, sickening glow intensified, and something about it reminded Geralt of the cave under the Temple Isle.

“You’re gonna be no use to this fight. Get out, try to find a guy with black hair, he should be coming—”

Whatever he’d been trying to say was lost as the first protofleder jumped. Geralt saw it vanish, and something made him lunge, knocking both Cerys and Oddleifr over. Cerys cried out as her side dragged over sharp stones of the cavern floor, but Geralt didn’t pay it much mind.

The protofleder was already turning around, grinning with a mouth full of jagged teeth. The rest were drawing closer, but only the one attacking was uttering chitters. Geralt parried the next strike, strong enough to rattle his bones. He went on offensive right after, wounding the vampire. The protofleder slashed at his forearm, drawing blood.

The rest of the vampires, still hanging back for some reason, started to make a low, crooning noise as his blood dripped on the floor. Geralt saw Cerys standing with her sword drawn, face tight with horrified concentration, and then the next wave of the nightmares came, pulsing out like a slam of fever, burying into his skull.

_ Dark. Dark and cold. They had kicked his ribs in, but if Anna Henrietta thought she’d win this way, she was mistaken. _

_ The wound on his thigh was infected, and fever was eating him alive. He was trying to avoid coughing as he waited for sleep to take him. It was so cold, and no light anywhere. He was buried alive, and soon enough they would bury him for real. _

_ Gods, he’d do anything to see Regis once more. _

Geralt was slammed off his feet, and he landed at the foot of the runestone. It was glowing, but not the familiar light Geralt remembered from the last time: instead of the pale green light, the centre was alight with deepening reds and blues, flashing rapidly.

The protofleder advanced, and at the same time a few others finally started to creep towards Cerys and Oddleifr. Geralt’s heart crawled up his throat as he stood up, trying to assess their odds. All was forgotten the next second, when three more vampires attacked. Geralt was forced to abandon strategies, sword swinging and lungs burning.

When the next wave of nightmares leveled them, he expected the protofleders to tear them into pieces. Instead, they halted, watching them closely, as if waiting for something. Geralt fought tooth and nail to stay in the present moment, but as the runestone flashed red, he heaved and fell to his knees.

_ The battle was raging on the bridge, and Geralt couldn’t spare more than a glance towards where he knew Milva was, with Regis crouching down next to her, trying to save her and her unborn child _ —

_ “How did you know to come here?” a voice whispered inside his head. _

_ Geralt tried to see where Cahir was, but the world was distorting, sounds were coming and going, as if from the end of a long tunnel. _

_ “You’re a meddling one, aren’t you?” _

_ Too many Nilfgaardians, would Regis join the battle, or stay with Milva, Geralt needed to get the escaping soldiers into line _ —

_ “I could use you instead.” _

Geralt wrenched himself free from the vision, that battle had been fought and won so many years ago, and as a last effort drove his sword through the glowing centre of the runestone.

A high-pitched wail came from the stone as magic exploded, throwing Geralt, Cerys, Oddleifr, and the protofleders back several feet. Geralt hit the opposite wall and landed next to a bleeding Cerys, but his head was finally clearing, the sounds of the battle fading away with one final hush.

_ “I will come find you, don’t you worry, you might be just what I need,”  _ the voice whispered, and then it was gone, leaving Geralt feeling like someone had stuck a dirty finger inside his brain. The coils of the shadows started to creep back and leak out of the cavern.

When he scrambled back on his feet along with Cerys, the protofleders hissed.

“You really should have run,” Geralt grunted.

“Aye, I’m beginning to see the sense in that,” Cerys said quietly, wiping away blood from her cheek and then taking a battle stance. “What was that voice I heard?”

Geralt tried to answer, but then the first two fleders attacked. He drove the advancing vampires back, whirling as fast as he was able. He did everything he could to keep himself between the vampires and Cerys, but a few managed to give him the slip. His neck and thigh got gouged with deep claws as he was forced to turn around and deal killing blows.

Cerys was holding her own, but she was injured and a human, with no hope to match the speed of the monsters for longer periods of time. Geralt lost track of the time, but finally one protofleder swept Cerys off her feet, sending her sailing through the air. In the faint light of the glowing vampires and a guttering torch lying abandoned in the ground, Geralt didn’t see her move from where she fell.

The vampires kept coming. Geralt continued tearing through them, and the dissipating shadow made his breath come in gasps. There were too many of the enemy, and there was something nasty in the glint of the vampires’ eyes; they stalked closer, and Geralt felt his throat grow tight.

“Oddleifr!” he yelled. “Grab a sword, help me!”

The short glance he spared behind him told him all he needed to know. Cerys was unconscious, but breathing. Oddleifr was standing with his back against the wall next to her, frozen with fear. His eyes were enormous and empty, and his hands were shaking so badly there was absolutely no hope he’d be of any help.

Geralt returned his gaze to the advancing protofleders, and something seemed to resign inside him.

He might not be going home, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited to add: There is no "major character death" tag. <3


	10. Reaching Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so: This chapter gets very dark (it's the one that I mentioned some time ago on Tumblr.) There is also a mention of past abuse. If anyone needs further info before reading, please shoot me a message on Twitter or Tumblr. <3
> 
> Beta by [Tsurai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsurai/pseuds/tsurai). <3

Dettlaff sensed the moment something gave up inside Geralt. He’d felt the creeping fear and the rage, but those hadn’t been enough to get him through the curse’s barrier once he’d finally reached the bridge. Wind kept whipping his hair, more snow making the ground slippery as he stood with the soldiers, watching the pulsing, moving shadow that had driven them out from the courtyard.

He’d kept inching closer with the soldiers, and each time they had been leveled by the backlash. He’d seen Beauclair in flames, Rhena— _ no, Syanna, Syanna _ —dying again, Regis looking at him and both of them knowing one of them would die if it came to a fight, and he’d fallen on his knees with the man called Hjalmar and the rest of them.

But then his bond with Geralt fluttered, and something seemed to sink through a formerly solid foundation and disappear, and Dettlaff felt his chest grow tight with blind fear. He knew it would bleed over to Regis, but his brother was still too far; Dettlaff was the only one who could help Geralt right now.

With a growl, he pushed through into murky darkness. The visions flashed through him, but he kept following the thread that tied him together with Geralt. There was another flash of panic, coming from further away, and Dettlaff knew Regis was tearing towards Kaer Trolde as fast as he was able.

Dettlaff ached for Regis, because knowing your mate was in grave danger was the worst possible situation their kind could land in. Then he pushed the feeling aside, continuing towards where he felt Geralt still fighting. Waves of the nightmare kept coming, but as he finally descended into a stone tunnel, he noted they were becoming weaker and coming at irregular intervals.

Dettlaff made it to the cavern, his stomach cramping and his head hazy, but just in time. Fury gripped him, and he tore through the fleders that had been ready to sink their claws into the witcher. There was something wrong with the air itself, it seemed to ripple madly around him, tugging at his being on the astral plane.

Geralt was only half-conscious. His pupils were tiny slits, and he held his sword up with massive effort. There was a huge gash down his chest, the armor torn into shreds where claws had sunk in, and he was bleeding from several smaller wounds as well.

But what alarmed Dettlaff was his mind. The bond they shared was still there, but on Geralt’s end it was very quiet. Dettlaff had grown used to the warm light glowing from the witcher, but now it had disappeared. His mind was exhausted and dim, and something essential seemed to be bleeding away.

He caught Geralt as he fell, and only then he saw there were two other persons in the cavern as well. A woman with red hair was lying with her face against the floor, breathing but out cold. Next to him was a man, bloodied and battered, but alive as well. Dettlaff quickly pushed his true face away, reaching for his disguise. Once he was sure he looked human again, he gently lowered Geralt down and checked the other two.

The man stirred as Dettlaff touched his neck, letting out a groan. His hand climbed to his head, and then he opened his eyes.

“By gods,” he murmured, voice hazy with pain and fear.

“You’re safe now,” Dettlaff said. The man sat up on his own, cradling the sluggishly bleeding side of his head.

“Is Cerys—” he asked, eyes darting around. Dettlaff realized the cavern was so dark a human would have trouble seeing.

“You’re talking about her?” he asked, nodding towards the unconscious woman. “She’s alive.”

“Oh, thank Freya,” the man said with a sound that was half-sob, half-laugh. “I need to take her to safety.”

“The witcher is hurt,” Dettlaff said, moving to crouch beside Geralt again. His heart was beating fast, and Dettlaff wished he would’ve paid more mind to Regis’ endless talks about human anatomy. He had no idea whether that was a good or bad sign.

“Is he alive?” the man asked, scrambling to his feet and making his way to the woman, Cerys.

“For now, but he’s bleeding. We need to get them both out of here,” Dettlaff said. He carefully slid his hands under Geralt, trying to reach for him through the bond at the same time. What met him was a confused, agonized mess; Geralt was somewhere far away, but not wholly unconscious.

“Come on, then,” the man said. He’d managed to pick Cerys up, and stood cradling her to his chest. Dettlaff nodded, following the man out of the cavern filled with protofleder bodies. The reek of vampire blood faded as they walked, but its place was taken by the smell of sweat, injury, and adrenaline.

Dettlaff could smell Cerys’ blood, still full of cortisol and other stress-induced hormones, but otherwise untainted. Geralt, who was still bleeding heavily, was another story. Dettlaff suspected he had downed a witcher potion of some sort, because the smell of his blood made his stomach turn. There were blackish veins starting to stand out on his face, accentuated by the deathly paleness.

Dettlaff ignored how nauseous the smell made him, and made sure to hold Geralt as gently as possible. He kept holding the bond, trying to push assurances of safety in it. There was still no response.

Once they stepped into the courtyard, Dettlaff saw the shadow was dissipating. Coils were clinging to the walls and floor of the courtyard, but as sun broke through the gathered clouds, its light seemed to drive the lingering vestiges away.

There was a wordless, relieved shout, and then Hjalmar was running towards them, heedless of the lingering miasma. He slid to a stop next to the man carrying Cerys, his fingers flying to her face, and when Cerys opened her bleary eyes, Hjalmar’s breath hitched as he bent down to embrace her.

“Fuckin’ hell, Cerys,” Hjalmar croaked as he pulled back. “I thought—”

“I’ll live,” Cerys said with a faint, pained smile. The big man carefully put her back down, and she remained leaning on him and Hjalmar.

“Thanks to Geralt,” Cerys added, and when her eyes landed on Dettlaff, still holding Geralt, a look of dread passed over her face.

“We need a healer, now!” she shouted, her voice growing with authority in seconds, and suddenly the courtyard was filling with people. Guards ran past them, some into the keep, some stationing themselves around the walls, and Dettlaff saw them trying to hold back the common folk massing on the bridge.

Two things happened at once. A man, in his fifties and wearing healer’s robes, pushed to him and looked at Geralt with horror and recognition in his eyes before pressing his hands into the wound to staunch the bleeding. At the same time, the bond gave a violent twist inside Dettlaff’s brain, and he drew in a breath.

Regis.

Dettlaff’s head whirled around, and he saw Regis amidst the people, trying to get through the throng with Ivy a step behind him. Their eyes met, and then Regis’ gaze moved to Geralt, and another, deeper wound of panic opened. Dettlaff saw Regis’ mouth open in a wordless plea, and his instinct screamed at him to get Geralt to his mate, when a heavy hand landed on his arm.

The man who had carried Cerys up from the cavern was standing next to him.

“The queen told us to take the witcher up, we have a room for him. The healer will see to him right away,” he said in a steady, guarded voice.

Another pulse, this one of anger, made Dettlaff look back towards the bridge. Regis was frozen in place, staring at the man with wide eyes.

In a flash, Dettlaff understood the man must be the seneschal, the one who had threatened Regis.

The seneschal turned his head, and Dettlaff could feel the exact moment when his eyes met with Regis’.

Dettlaff’s mind ground to a halt as he tried to swallow the acrid hatred that burst free, making appearing human a massive effort. He wanted to strike the man down, wanted to hurt him for harming his pack, but at the same time the sensible part of his brain screamed much louder, drowning out the first instinct.

If Regis stepped foot into the keep, there would be danger.

The rush of cold horror came over him, but right when Dettlaff opened his mouth to say something, he had no clue what, he saw Ivy wrap her arms around Regis and wrestle him back.

Regis was trying to struggle against her, eyes wide and horrified, fixed again on Geralt, and Dettlaff felt how his brother’s sensible brain was almost overtaken by blind panic.

Dettlaff apologized quietly inside his mind, and then pushed, hard.

The bond recoiled, and Regis visibly flinched as the mental equivalent of a hard slap hit him. It allowed Ivy to pull him back, and Dettlaff sent another desperate apology to Regis, heart hurting for having to hurt his pack mate like this.

The healer was still talking, and he gave Dettlaff’s shoulder a sharp push.

“Well, go on! Get the witcher inside!” he growled, and Dettlaff rushed to follow him up the stairs, trying to block out the broken, desolate hurt that was coming from Regis.

 

The healer directed him to a room on the second floor, and once Dettlaff carefully lowered Geralt onto the bed, he was unceremoniously kicked out. He lingered outside the door, wondering if he could somehow sneak in, but then a nervous-looking young man in black and red clothes jogged up the stairs.

“Yer the witcher’s friend, right?” he asked, halting several paces away. “The queen wants to talk to you.”

“What for?” Dettlaff asked. He tried to school his features into something less threatening when the lad visibly blanched. “Is it urgent?” he asked in a gentler tone.

“A-aye, she told me to fetch you right away,” he said, nodding down the stairs.

Dettlaff sighed, but something told him the healer would not appreciate him barging in. He reached for Geralt, but was met with only the same confusing, shifting mindscape, and then followed the young man into the great hall.

More healers were milling around people, some of whom were crying, some staring vacantly into space. The lad took Dettlaff to the big doors at the end, and finally let him into a fine room with mounted weapons on the walls, and thick carpets covering the floors.

Queen Cerys was sitting down, and a healer was trying to apply a poultice to her neck, but she pushed the woman away when her eyes found Dettlaff.

“How is Geralt?” she asked, coming a few steps closer and then halting, hands hovering over her chest.

“Alive, for now,” Dettlaff said. “The healer is doing his best.” As he acknowledged the situation, he felt how tired he was. It was only early afternoon, but he felt like he’d been up for several days. Even with the nightmares gone, his head felt unpleasantly crowded. The odd feeling from the cavern seemed to persist, making him feel like someone was watching him.

“Harald an Tordarroch is the best healer we have,” Queen Cerys said quietly as she leaned on her desk and waved an irritated hand at the healer when she tried to swoop in with the poultice again. “If anyone can save Geralt, it’s him.”

Dettlaff nodded, not knowing what to say. He was surprised the queen would refuse the best care herself and offer it to an outsider.

When he looked up, he found himself under intense scrutiny. The queen watched him for a while.

“Who are you?” she finally asked.

Dettlaff gave her a short, informal bow. “Dettlaff van der Eretein. I’m a friend of Geralt’s.”

“I wasn’t aware he was traveling with more friends. I was only introduced to master Regis,” Queen Cerys said, cocking an eyebrow.

Dettlaff wished, not for the first time, that he was half the liar Regis was.

“I arrived only recently,” he said slowly. “When I heard what was happening, I wanted to help.”

“And you managed to get through the nightmares, when even my brother couldn’t pass,” Cerys finished for him. Her eyes were hard and clever, and Dettlaff felt reluctant admiration; she was clearly in pain, but able to work through it.

“I managed, yes,” Dettlaff finally said. “Just barely, but I arrived in time to finish off the last of those vampires. You were unconscious, your grace, as was the seneschal.”

Cerys narrowed her eyes, and Dettlaff reigned in his discomfort, not offering anything more. He had no idea how he would handle the situation if Cerys decided to question him further, or raise an issue about him remaining by Geralt’s side.

“The seneschal doesn’t fight,” Cerys said quietly, breaking the uncomfortable silence as her expression turning heavy with sorrow Dettlaff couldn’t explain. “Not anymore, ever.”

She went quiet, and Dettlaff tried and failed to avoid showing his puzzlement. 

It was quickly replaced by anxiety. There was no way he would abandon the witcher; even now, something was making alarm bells ring inside him, telling him the danger hadn’t passed. With Regis unable to come to Geralt, Dettlaff was the only member of their pack present.

“You have my thanks, Dettlaff van der Eretein,” Cerys spoke. She extended a hand, and after hesitating, Dettlaff took it. Cerys’ grip was firm, and her hand had sword calluses to match Geralt’s.

“You may stay in Kaer Trolde. I offer you my hospitality,” she added. 

“Thank you, your grace,” Dettlaff said with a numb tongue.

“I ask you to make sure Geralt is taken care of,” the queen added, releasing Dettlaff’s hand. “I have my people to take care of, but I’ll feel better when I know he will pull through.”

“I can do that.” Dettlaff opened his mouth to ask if he was excused, but the door opened without a knock, and the seneschal stepped in.

Another flare of pure anger went through Dettlaff, and he drew in a very slow breath to avoid showing it. The seneschal walked up to Cerys, and started to rattle off latest tidings from the keep. He looked haggard, and Dettlaff tried to hold back his anger.

He couldn’t lash out here. Not when Geralt’s life depended on it.

“May I have a word?” a soft voice interrupted Dettlaff. He turned around, and saw a woman with light hair and pale, green eyes watching him closely. She had apparently entered right after the seneschal, on light feet because Dettlaff had missed her. When he didn’t answer right away, she gently took his hand and pulled him with her.

Dettlaff shook her hand away once they were back in the hallway, but continued to follow her nonetheless. There was something odd about the woman, he thought as he trailed after her. Her gait was smooth and sure, and she held herself in a way that reminded Dettlaff of someone he’d met and then forgotten.

The woman led him through the big hall and then to a small study. Once she had closed the door, she let out a heavy sigh and sat down behind the desk.

“You’re the one who saved the queen,” she said. Her voice was melodious.

“Yes,” Dettlaff said with a frown.

The woman met his eyes calmly. “My name is Leah, I’m Cerys’ advisor. If you know the witcher sufficiently well to get to him through the nightmares, then you surely know what the seneschal Oddleifr did.”

Dettlaff knew his face betrayed his anger then, and Leah nodded. Her lips thinned.

“You will do well not to act on that,” she said darkly. “You’re here as a guest of the queen. That is not to say I approve of Oddleifr’s actions,” she added when Dettlaff opened his mouth to disagree. He fell silent, staring at Leah.

She shrugged. “I don’t understand the witcher or his relationship to master Regis, but as long as the queen trusts him, I have no issues.”

“Can you… Is it possible to bring Regis here?” Dettlaff asked. His hope crumbled when Leah shook her head, eyes tight.

“I’m afraid not. The seneschal is responsible for the defense of Kaer Trolde. After what happened today, he will be working closely with the queen to keep everyone safe.”

Dettlaff sighed. There wasn’t a way to explain the bond to a human, even though he knew Geralt would need his mate to heal. He could still feel Regis’ panic and hurt, and guilt ate him up. He said a silent prayer to whoever might care to listen, trying to express how much he wanted to fix everything.

“Keep your head down,” Leah said, as she rose to her feet and opened the door for him. “And take care of your friend.”

 

Dettlaff was forced to wait several hours. He parked himself outside Geralt’s room, and when the servants finally came to a conclusion he wouldn’t budge, they brought him food and drink there. He tried to listen through the door, but only a faint murmur accompanied by the occasional sound of tools being set down came through.

Evening was drawing near when the door finally opened. A pale girl peeked out, and then beckoned him in. She fiddled with her braid as she held the door open.

“He’s not well,” she whispered. Her eyes were tired in the candlelight as she left the room.

Dettlaff looked to the bed, and saw the witcher lying there. He was deathly pale, and the freshly-stitched wound was angry red against the stark whiteness of his skin. The black veins were still standing out, and Dettlaff guessed they were because of the witcher potion he’d smelled earlier. 

The older man in healer’s robes who was hovering over him looked up.

“Who are you?” he asked. He had a Skelliger accent, and he met Dettlaff’s eyes without a hint of fear.

“A friend,” Dettlaff said. 

His mind was turning over the incidents of the past hours. He still felt somewhat unreal about what had happened, and the queen greeting him as a friend and giving him her hospitality was only one entry on the long, long list. He was still shaken by the sight of Ivy restraining Regis on the bridge, both of them just managing to avoid letting their disguises slip.

Dettlaff sat down on the bed, and the man sighed.

“Forgive me, master. I’m a bit wary at the moment. I did see you carrying the witcher to safety earlier.”

“No need to apologize,” Dettlaff said. Geralt was breathing shallowly, and his face was twisted with pain even when unconscious.

“I’ve done all I’ve can,” the man continued. “But the curse got to him deep. I have no idea how to treat it.”

“The curse has something to do with losing what you hold dear, doesn’t it?” Dettlaff asked. The man met his eyes, and then nodded.

“Aye. It attacks the brain like nothing I’ve ever seen. With those wounds, I’m worried it’ll do some lasting damage.”

“Do you know him?” 

Without thinking, Dettlaff let his hand cover Geralt’s. The skin under his palm was cool and clammy.

The man gave a mirthless chuckle. “I sewed him back together once before, in Toussaint. His daughter, Princess Cirilla, brought me along to help him. He’d been mistreated in the prison, if I heard correctly.”

Dettlaff felt a hot wave of shame go through him as he understood; the man was the healer who had saved Geralt’s life after he, Dettlaff, had made him end up in the Beauclair prison. Now the man was watching the witcher with sad, haunted eyes. Like one watched a person they cared about.

“I wonder where master Regis is,” the man continued in a quieter tone. Dettlaff’s eyes snapped to him, and he sighed.

“He helped me in Toussaint, and I know he cares for the witcher. I thought it odd he was not here for the battle, when I heard he accompanied master Geralt earlier.”

The sentence sat uncomfortable with Dettlaff, and he tried to come up with something to say. The man kept his keen eyes on him for a long while, and then he sighed again. When he sat down, his shoulders slumped.

“Your name is Dettlaff, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Harald an Tordarroch. I know Regis is not human.”

Dettlaff stared at the man. There was wariness in him, but no traces of obvious fear or loathing.

“I saw with my own eyes how much Regis loves the witcher,” Harald an Tordarroch continued. “Why is he not here?”

“Why do you ask me?” Dettlaff got out. On the bed, the witcher made a faint sound of discomfort.

Harald an Tordarroch regarded him for a long while, assessing something. Then he shrugged.

“Because whatever Regis is, you are too.”

Dettlaff felt dread grip him. Not for himself, but for Geralt. If this human knew the witcher was together with a higher vampire, and had indeed brought one into the keep…

“You have no need to worry,” the man said before Dettlaff could even react. “The witcher doesn’t trust easily, and if you know each other well enough to allow you through the curse to save him, then that is enough for me. Your true nature doesn’t concern me.” He looked down at the witcher. “But Geralt needs Regis now. Why is he not here?”

“How do you know all that?” Dettlaff asked. His mind was whirring, assessing threats, trying to come up with a way to take Geralt away from the keep and to Regis, in any way possible.

“My great-grandmother was an iele,” the man said in a low tone. “She forsake her true nature to live among humans, and some of her natural energy flows through me as well.” He gave a small smile. “I sense the true nature of almost everyone I meet, provided they are not actively guarding it against me.”

Geralt made another small sound, twitching, and without thinking, Dettlaff brushed his hair back from his forehead. At the contact, the witcher calmed down a little.

“My question stands,” Harald an Tordarroch said. “Where is Regis?”

“He can’t return to the keep,” Dettlaff whispered. “The seneschal found out he and Geralt are together, and threatened to spill the truth to everyone if he does.”

Harald’s eyes turned dark with anger, and his fists clenched.

“The bigotry of people never ends,” he muttered. Then his eyes turned tired, and Dettlaff knew he was exhausted after the day. 

“Will you stay with him? I have nothing more I can do for him, and I fear he might not make it through the nightmares if they come again,” the healer asked.

“I will,” Dettlaff said.

***

He never left the Isle of Mists.

The magic firefly circled over Ciri’s head when he eventually laid her down. It touched her, and Geralt knew Avallac’h had tricked him. He’d never meant to save Ciri; the Aen Elle had been biding his time, waiting for a chance to steal Ciri’s power and life. Geralt had no idea how he’d managed, but Ciri had trusted the elf. 

Maybe he’d simply asked for it, in the end? When everything was looking hopeless, Avallac’h had taken Ciri’s hand, looked her in the eye, and told her of one final way to beat the Hunt. All she needed to do was trust him.

Geralt couldn’t bear to look at her. The firefly, nothing more than a wisp of magic, trailed after him as he staggered out of the derelict cottage. The firefly rose higher, and then its light faded. Geralt watched the light go, and the lanterns that had lit the way to the cottage went out one by one. Once the last flame guttered out, he was left in the murky darkness, where even his enhanced eyesight struggled to discern distances. He could distantly hear the dwarves arguing amongst themselves, and the sound of oars as they hit water.

Further away, another fiend wailed.

Geralt sat down in front of the cottage. He was alone, and Avallac’h had been left at Kaer Morhen. If the Aen Elle was working together with Eredin, the Hunt had most likely razed the keep by now. Geralt tried to muster up any kind of a worry, but the probe was met with nothing. He felt empty. Gouged hollow, and so fucking tired.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, in the dim cold, but the little light that penetrated the enchanted mist seemed to grow weaker. He knew night was coming, and he was alone on a cursed island, and he didn’t care.

The fiend gave another guttural call in the darkness, this one sounding closer. Geralt glanced towards the sound, but didn’t make a move. Fog was slowly drawing closer, and he could hear the hiss of foglets as they flitted through the gnarled trees.

“Now you see why she didn’t choose,” a calm voice remarked. Geralt’s head snapped around, and it took him a moment to recognize the face.

“Istredd,” he said, raising to his feet. “How the fuck are you here?”

“Doesn’t matter,” the sorcerer said. He didn’t look like he had aged a day, and the only thing that certainly was different was the fact that this time he wasn’t carrying a sword. Istredd met his eyes with the same cold scorn as when they’d argued in Aedd Gynwael.

“You have failed,” he said. 

Geralt bared his teeth, and Istredd laughed. “I called you a mutant, but little did I know how accurate that was. Tell me, witcher, how is everything working out?”

“You’re still sore Yen didn’t choose to marry you,” Geralt spat out, but Istredd just chuckled.

“Oh, that? Why, I confess it smarted me for a time, but I was comforted by the fact that she didn’t choose you, either.”

“We didn’t choose each other,” Geralt said. Something felt off, and the fog was drawing ever closer. “We still became family.”

Istredd lifted an eyebrow, turning to leave. “You are a mutant, and you cannot feel. What’s worse, you refuse to acknowledge that.”

Geralt opened his mouth, but damn it, the same words that had made him angry in the past now dug under his skin like jagged thorns. Nothing came out from his mouth.

“You stumble through this life, unaware of what you lack, and you pull other people down with you.” Istredd was walking away, the fog swallowing him. “I guess for all your magnificent fighting skill you’re just as simple as I feared. I pray the people you hurt will move on.”

Then he was gone, and Geralt whirled around, trying to understand. He hadn’t seen, hell,  _ thought  _ of Istredd in years. How could the sorcerer be here?

“You don’t understand, because you are stupid,” another voice came right behind him.

His sword slashed through air, but as it collided with a barrier, the steel let out a horrible screech and broke into pieces. The strike was so hard Geralt dropped the stump of the sword, his whole hand going numb with the pain even as he backed away, his mind aflame with rage and fright.

“I killed you!” he got out, as his back hit the cottage wall.

Vilgefortz smiled at him, his mismatched eyes staring at Geralt.

“As if someone like you could kill me,” he laughed. “I took everything you held dear, Geralt. My soldiers and Bonhart struck down every single one of your little friends.”

His voice was smooth and jubilant, and it wormed its way inside Geralt’s head. Visions of Stygga flashed before his eyes, and before he realized what was happening, he sunk on his knees.

“No,” he gasped. “That’s not how it went.”

“No?” Vilgefortz said. He stepped closer and bent down, voice dropping to a whisper. “The archer, Milva, she went down first. As angry as she’d ever been, but scared underneath it all. And the little girl, crying out for auntie? She wasn’t even angry, in the end. She never became a countess.”

“Fuck you,” Geralt ground out. He was horrified to feel his throat closing up as grief started to grip him.

“Cahir was so set on saving Cirilla,” the sorcerer went on, watching Geralt closely. “He went against Bonhart, and the bounty hunter cut him down. The Black Knight, so in love, and so far from home.”

There were tears in his eyes now, and Geralt tried to blink them away, but he couldn’t get up.

“And the vampire,” Vilgefortz whispered. “How bright he burned, and how his heart broke when you left him there.”

“He survived!” Geralt shouted, lashing out. He didn’t remember grasping the knife at his belt, the one he mostly used to cut out trophies, but Vilgefortz just laughed and twisted out of the way.

“However that may be,” he said with a shrug. “You lost your little hansa, like you will lose everything else.”

Geralt wanted to shout some more, but the sorcerer was already walking away, and the fog swallowed him. The witcher was left panting on the ground, his chest heaving and nausea crawling up his throat.

Something howled in the darkness. The trees whispered, even when no wind moved their branches.

“You have given up.”

This voice Geralt recognized right away. He struggled into a sitting position, leaning against the wall, and when he finally lifted his head, he met Emhyr’s eyes with no real surprise.

“Yeah?” he asked. He was feeling numb and empty.

The emperor looked at him exactly like when they’d met each other again in Vizima, without a hint of respect. “You failed to save Cirilla from the fate you feared so much. And you gave up.”

“She was my daughter too,” Geralt said. He wanted to be rude to Emhyr, because for once there wasn’t a threat of his head being cut off as a result, but he couldn’t find the energy. He wanted to go to sleep, and never wake up.

“You can lie to yourself about that, but in the end she chose me,” Emhyr said. His goshawk eyes cut straight through Geralt. “And you know this. You fell apart after she left, after she rode away with Morvran Voorhis, and the only thing that prevented you from drowning there and then was another contract.”

Emhyr went quiet, looking him over with an expression that verged on pity. “You sold your witcher code, and for what?”

Geralt’s head was starting to spin, but it was nothing compared to the yawning chasm that was opening inside his chest. He was hurting, and all sensible thought was sucked into that darkness, until only hopeless exhaustion remained.

Emhyr rose to his feet and dusted off his gambeson. “I thought you were clever, witcher,” he said. “But in the end you drove away your family.”

He, too, was long gone by the time Geralt managed to open his mouth. He fought against the wish to lay down and close his eyes, to simply give up. Something wasn’t right, there was a nagging thought bothering him, pushing into his head, but the damp cold was trying to snuff it out.

For a second he thought he heard someone call out his name in the dark, but the sound was drowned out by the harpies’ screeches.

Geralt closed his eyes again, rubbing his temples. He had to get out, but how?

Then there were footsteps, and he recognized that gait even before he smelled wormwood, cinnamon, and aniseed.

Geralt lifted his head again, something hot strangling him, but there was no gentle smile on Regis’ face when he crouched down on his level. Black eyes met his with a frown.

“You left.” Regis’ voice was flat. He didn’t reach out to touch Geralt, and when the witcher tried to find the bond, there was nothing.

“Regis, no—”

“You left, but you didn’t realize I had decided to go before you did,” Regis spoke over him. Above them, snow begun to fall. It came down without a sound, bringing wet cold with it.

“You left me at Stygga, and you left me again,” Regis said, shaking his head. “This doesn’t work. I am not going to wait for a third time, when you leave the mortal world.”

Geralt tried to find his voice. There was something he’d wanted to say to Regis earlier, but he’d pushed it away. He’d thought there was nothing they couldn’t talk about, but he had been wrong.

“You said you chose me,” Geralt whispered, and that was the thing that had been hurting so viciously all this time, what he hadn’t dared to examine. He had tried and tried to trust in their bond, but deep within he’d felt a nagging fear that Regis would change his mind.

Regis’ frown deepened. “A mistake. I changed my mind. It’s just not worth it.”

“You came to the Moreau lab with me, I went into the contraption because I believed—” Geralt rasped. The snow that clung to him wasn’t melting, and the cold penetrated his armor and clothes too easily. He tried to gasp for breath.

“Stop believing, then,” Regis said as he stood up. Again, Geralt thought he heard someone calling out his name, and Regis turned his head towards the sound. He looked thoughtful.

“You will stay here,” he mused. “After you lose everything, you won’t leave.” With that, he turned around and left, not leaving any tracks into the wet snow.

The dark drew closer, and Geralt knew Regis had been right. He wouldn’t be able to get up on his own. His chest felt like it had been cleaved in half, and he was just so cold, and so, so tired.

“Geralt?”

He wanted to go home.

“Geralt, please open your eyes.”

Except there wasn’t a home anymore.

“Geralt, can you hear me?”

Someone cupped his face, and against all expectations, the hands that touched him were warm. Geralt opened his eyes, and saw a man with messy black hair and very pale eyes staring at him. He looked vaguely familiar.

“That’s good. Can you hear me?”

Geralt managed a nod. The landscape seemed to be shifting, and the sight made him more nauseous. The man reached out a hand and dusted the snow off him.

“This isn’t real,” he said. He looked around, and Geralt saw eyes glinting in the darkness.

“That is not to say it isn’t dangerous here,” the man went on. “We must leave.”

Geralt felt a moment of vertigo as the man pulled him to his feet. His legs felt unsteady, and everything was hurting.

“Why?” he managed to ask.

The man looked at him in question, and he tried to explain.

“Why go? I lost it all,” he managed, not really knowing anymore what he was referring to.

The man actually smiled. “That is the curse talking. You haven’t lost anything that can’t be reclaimed. Come.”

Geralt followed him, and as he walked, the Isle of Mists melted away. He floated through a haze, and then he could suddenly tell he wasn’t walking anymore, but lying on his back. And if he’d thought he was hurting in the dream, it was nothing compared to this.

He must have made a noise, because something pressed against his lips immediately.

“Drink this,” a deep, rough voice said. Bitter liquid was carefully poured into his mouth, and somehow he managed to swallow it without retching. Then the cup vanished, and someone wiped his forehead with a wet cloth.

Geralt forced his eyes open, and Dettlaff met his gaze. A relieved smile broke out, looking oddly out of place on his face, which was grey with exhaustion.

“You’re back,” the vampire said. He put the cloth away and rubbed his eyes.

“What happened?” Geralt whispered. He had to breathe shallowly, because his chest was on fire.

“The last protofleders almost got to you,” Dettlaff said, shifting to sit more comfortably. Geralt suddenly registered the vampire was sitting cross-legged next to him on the bed, wearing the familiar red tunic and black trousers. His hair was in disarray, as if he’d completely forgotten to smooth out his curls.

“I cut them down, and then the healer saved you from bleeding out,” Dettlaff went on.

“Is Cerys okay?” Geralt asked.

Dettlaff nodded, another smile making him look less like a walking corpse. “She’s fine. She has been checking in on you five times a day. You’ve been unconscious for two days.”

“I feel like absolute shit,” Geralt muttered, trying to shift and then abandoning all effort to do so, because his ribcage felt like it was coming apart. Judging by the glare Dettlaff gave him, it was the right thing to do.

“You lost a lot of blood,” Dettlaff said. “And almost poisoned yourself with whatever witcher tonic you’d taken.”

Geralt had a vague memory of chucking down a full vial of Black Blood, and he blinked. He glanced at his hand, and saw black veins still standing out against his skin.

“And then the nightmares came,” Dettlaff finished, his voice growing quiet. He looked conflicted, playing with the hem of his tunic. “I didn’t know what to do, but you were slipping away.”

“You came to get me,” Geralt said. Memories of the nightmare were bleeding away, details smudging over now that he was awake and back in the real world, but the deep hurt didn’t wane.

Dettlaff nodded. “I… I broke through, into your head. I’m sorry.”

“What are you apologizing for?” Geralt asked. “Seems like you saved me. Wasn’t it so that a pack mates know how to help each other?”

“This wasn’t the same,” Dettlaff said quietly, talking to his hands. “I didn’t use the thread that binds us together. I broke into your head by force, because I can do that.”

He was silent for a moment, and then reluctantly met Geralt’s eyes. “Regis has probably mentioned I can command lesser vampires.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” Geralt blurted out without thinking, and he both felt and saw Dettlaff draw in on himself with shame, as the memory of Beauclair flickered through their minds.

“I can force myself into their heads,” Dettlaff went on, clearly making himself to push out the words. “I can bend them to my will. It’s something that is considered a unique skill, but I know it originates from my clan. My original tribe.”

_ Ammurun _ , Geralt thought. He had never managed to ask about the differences between the vampire tribes.

“The symbol of Ammurun is a hand clutching a dagger,” Dettlaff went on, and Geralt recalled seeing it, painted on the walls of Tesham Mutna. “It was chosen because those belonging to Ammurun chose to wage war against the other two tribes after arriving in this world. They very nearly won, because unlike the others, they can command our lesser cousins. In the end Gharasham and Tdet drove them out of the Continent.”

Geralt knew he was most likely the first non-vampire hearing this, and he briefly wondered what Ivy would think about Dettlaff telling him about this.

“So you, what? Broke into my head?” Geralt asked carefully. Dettlaff looked down and nodded.

“I did. It is a violent, ugly process. Doing so to another higher vampire, let alone a pack member, would warrant being declared anathema, if not an outright death sentence,” he murmured. Another wave of shame went through the bond, and while Geralt wasn’t as attuned to Dettlaff as he was to Regis, it was strong enough to make him shudder.

“You saved me,” Geralt said. He managed to lift his hand and weakly squeeze Dettlaff’s arm. “Thank you.”

“I didn’t know what else to do,” Dettlaff said. “You were almost gone.” He rubbed his eyes, and sighed. “There will likely be some lingering effects, headaches and odd sensations, but I swear I won’t do it again.”

Geralt nodded. “I believe you.” The thought that Dettlaff had broken inside his head was unsettling, but he found out he wasn’t truly scared of the vampire forcing his way in again. At some point he had started to trust Dettlaff.

“Why did you attack Beauclair?” Geralt asked all of a sudden, the confusion finally spilling over. He knew it was a bad time to ask, when they were both fragile and hurting, and still the words came.

Dettlaff flinched, muscles tensing. For a second, it looked like he was going to dissolve into mist and vanish. Then he slumped down and hid his eyes behind a hand.

“I lost control,” he whispered. “I have a—wound, a fault in me. It never goes away, and no matter how hard I try to hold it back—” he drew in a breath to calm down, letting the hand fall away. His eyes were red, a few angry tears slipping out.

“When I learned Sylvia Anna had deceived me, I knew I’d lose control,” he went on, fighting to keep talking despite his voice growing tight. Geralt almost held his breath, wondering if even Regis had heard this. Dettlaff’s hands were clenched into fists, claws digging into his palms.

“It’s… I haven’t always been this way.”

“What happened?” Geralt asked. He had no idea whether Dettlaff wanted to tell him, if he had any right to ask, but again the words slipped out before he thought about it.

Dettlaff stared at his hands, opening and closing his fists slowly and watching the wounds his claws had dug close. He looked very lost, just then.

“When I was young, a member of my pack tried to hurt me,” he said in an emotionless tone. “I fought back, and I broke something inside his head. I lost control, then. I drove him halfway to insanity before others intervened.”

“But you were trying to defend yourself,” Geralt begun, and Dettlaff shook his head.

“I wanted to hurt him. And I did. It cost me my pack. I was put on trial, and they took my dreams as a punishment.”

“Wait,” Geralt said. “Your dreams?”

Finally Dettlaff met his gaze. He looked exhausted. “I don’t dream,” he said quietly. “I haven’t for over four hundred years.”

“But you said you had nightmares,” Geralt went on.

A bitter smile twisted Dettlaff’s mouth. “Apparently, those are the exception. It’s very unsettling.”

“Why did your pack member try to harm you?” Geralt asked. He knew he was digging at deep, old wounds, but something was still urging him on, making him ask the questions.

Anger brushed the vampire’s face and then vanished. “I was unwilling to behave according to tradition. I was unwilling to command lesser vampires, refused to continue upholding violent traditions. Not unlike a human teenager, I rebelled. I thought I had it all figured out, and then an older member of my pack decided to do something about it. He was very skilled at the mindcraft.”

Something acrid crawled up Geralt’s throat, but he held his silence. Dettlaff stared into the distance. “He forced himself in, and...planted a seed. It’s hard to explain, but he broke out something I wasn’t aware of.

“Afterwards, I was lost. I felt out of control and violent, but tried to reign that in. I was still me, but after a time holding back all the anger became impossible and I’d—lash out. When the last of my tribe left, they left me behind.”

All of the coiled tension bled out then, and Dettlaff looked just tired and sad. He looked at Geralt. “I got lucky, in the end. Before I did more damage, I met some people from Gharasham. They were willing to help me.”

“Just like that?” Geralt asked. Dettlaff managed a ghost of a smile.

“I found them, because even through all that anger, I still possessed the instinct that told me they were important. They helped me just because they could. Gharasham has always been the tribe to take in outcasts from the two others.”

“So what you’re saying is that you lashed out? Back in Toussaint?” Geralt asked carefully.

“When you can’t dream, all your thoughts get stuck inside your head,” Dettlaff whispered. “After a while, it becomes unbearable. And feelings for higher vampires are different than they are for humans.”

“Intense,” Geralt murmured. “I felt that, when I drank the Resonance.”

Dettlaff nodded, but then his face darkened. “All this aside, there is no excuse for my actions. I shouldn’t have done what I did, and I can’t make it right.”

There was deep self-loathing in his voice, then. Geralt felt it echo through the bond. He reached out his hand again, and let it rest on the vampire’s arm. He didn’t know what to say, or if he wanted to offer comfort, but he knew no one should be alone with that many problems.

They sat in silence for a long while. The worst edge of the pain dulled, and Geralt guessed the liquid Dettlaff had given him was a painkiller of a stronger variety.

“Where’s Regis?” he suddenly asked. “You told me he was coming.” As he spoke the words, he instinctively reached for the bond, and relief flooded him when answer came seconds later. It was distant, but it was there, and after the nightmare it was like finally coming in from the cold.

Dettlaff turned to look at him properly, his anxiety slipping away. Something hard replaced it.

“Regis is down in the village.”

“Why didn’t he come here?” Geralt asked. He tried to push away the remnants of the nightmare, but now that he was aware of the bond again, it started to ache. He could feel his heart start to beat faster.

“Regis didn’t tell you about the seneschal,” Dettlaff whispered. He glanced around the room, eyes hard and cold. “The seneschal found out about you two, and he threatened Regis. He said that if Regis returns to the keep, he will tell everyone of your relationship.”

A dull ringing was starting at Geralt’s head. He stared at Dettlaff, but wasn’t really seeing him. He was going through his memories of the battle, how he’d saved Oddleifr’s life, when he’d—

“I’m going to kill him,” Geralt growled. He tried to get up, and as pain shot through him, Dettlaff pushed him down. The vampire held him to the mattress with apparent ease, glaring at him hard.

“This is exactly the reason Regis didn’t tell you. He didn’t want you to risk your welcome here.”

“I don’t give a shit!” Geralt exclaimed. “Let me go!” Even as he tried to struggle, he knew it was futile. The pain was making him sweat, and his head was swimming from exertion.

“No,” Dettlaff grunted. “You need to heal, and to do that you can’t get thrown out.”

“Oddleifr threatened my mate,” Geralt spat. He had to stop struggling because he feared he’d pass out, but the aching need to get to Regis was growing by the second.

“And you will have time to confront him later,” Dettlaff hissed. He glanced at the door. “But you can’t do that now, you’re wounded, and you need the healer here.”

As if on cue, the door opened. Dettlaff pulled away, but Geralt saw he didn’t look alarmed. It took him a second to recognize the face of the man who’d come in.

“You,” he said.

“Me,” Harald an Tordarroch said as he locked the door and stepped closer, shrugging off his hood. “It seems I was right to ask your friend to keep an eye on you. How many stitches did you rip out?”

Geralt glanced at his chest, where a spot of red was growing through the white of the bandages. He swallowed, but embarrassment wasn’t enough to quell the distress.

He needed to get to Regis.

Harald sighed. He motioned to Dettlaff, and together they helped Geralt sit up. As the healer started to unwrap the bandages, Geralt struggled to stay still.

“Dettlaff told me about Oddleifr,” Harald murmured. He pulled away the last of the bandages, and when Geralt was laying down again, he started to fix the torn stitches. He looked older and gaunter than back in summer.

“I’m going to kill that bastard,” Geralt grunted. Focusing on the anger made it easier to stay put, when all his instincts were screaming at him to drag his ass out of the door and find Regis as fast as possible. After he’d killed Oddleifr, that is.

“I wouldn’t advise it,” Harald said with a frown. “Queen Cerys is very fond of him, and harming the seneschal will surely end your welcome here.”

“Am I supposed to do nothing?” Geralt barked, and Harald glared at him, nodding towards the door.

“No, but you need to keep your head down long enough to get better,” Harald continued. He paused his work for a second and studied Geralt. “I know you want to protect your partner, but exposing both of you would be beyond foolish. It’d be dangerous.”

Geralt wanted to argue some more, but he was hurting, and staying angry took a lot of energy he didn’t really have. He closed his eyes and sighed, his chest throbbing with pain as he did. He stayed quiet as Harald finished fixing him, and then allowed them to wrap him in new bandages. Sleep started to tug at him, the exhaustion catching up, and he tried to fight it. The thought of having more nightmares made his skin crawl.

“You can sleep,” Dettlaff whispered when his eyes slipped closed for the second time and he flinched awake. “I’ll stay here and watch out for you. I’ll wake you up if something bad happens.” His voice was low and soothing.


	11. Connection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I FINISHED THIS FIC.
> 
> I did a completely senseless writing sprint last weekend, and Sidetracks is now mostly done! Also my beta [Tsurai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsurai/pseuds/tsurai) went above and beyond with their efforts, so now it's just fixing things a bit. :)

When Geralt woke up, he was feeling both better and worse. His dreams had been confusing and oppressive, and his mind felt tired. The bond kept pullin and it made focusing on anything but getting back to Regis difficult. His wounds were healing, but he felt the lingering effects of the Black Blood, and knew he’d have to steer clear from taking potions for a while.

Geralt turned his head, and was surprised to see Dettlaff asleep next to him. The vampire had apparently been reading, leaning against the headboard, and then fallen asleep. He had slid down during the night, and his head was resting on his folded arms. There were still deep shadows under his eyes, and his hair was a mess of black curls.

Geralt smiled. Dettlaff looked completely different from the person he’d met in Beauclair in the summer. The aloof, imposing person had been replaced by this tired, approachable version. Geralt spent a few moments wondering if it was the pack bond working, or just Dettlaff himself feeling more comfortable with his presence.

His musings were interrupted when the vampire stirred. His gaze was vacant and confused for a moment. Then he sat up, craning his neck in a way that suggested sleeping pressed against a wooden headboard had been a bad idea.

“Pardon me, I fell asleep,” he said, rubbing his eyes and trying to push his hair away from his face.

“It’s okay,” Geralt said. “No nightmares.”

Dettlaff looked satisfied. “That’s good. How are you feeling?”

“Better, physically, but…” Geralt trailed off, hoping he wouldn’t have to explain how he felt like he was coming apart inside. He was hurting and he wanted to get out of the keep and go to Regis.

“The bond is making staying apart hard,” Dettlaff finished for him. “Especially since Regis is so worried about you.”

Geralt was about to ask whether Regis could sneak in, when the door opened without a knock, and Cerys walked in.

“Oh, Geralt!” Cerys said, rushing to the bed and sitting down. “I was so worried. Are you feeling better?”

“Yeah,” Geralt said with a smile. Cerys was pale, and her neck showed a healing wound. “You holding up alright?”

“Me? Psh, don’t worry about that,” Cerys scoffed, waving her hand. “Leah is keeping me in check, nagging at me day in and out for working too hard.”

Geralt grinned. “Good thing someone does.” He remembered Leah from the previous visit, and wondered briefly what her connection to Cerys was. He was certain the woman hadn’t been present at Kaer Trolde when he’d visited with Yen.

Cerys rolled her eyes. “I might say the same thing about your friend Dettlaff here. He’s been very vigilant ever since he dragged your arse out of the dungeon.”

Geralt glanced at the vampire, who resolutely refused to meet his eye. When he probed the bond, he was met with something that seemed a bit embarrassed.

“I’ll try to get back on my feet soon,” Geralt said. “The curse is getting worse by the day.”

“You need to rest and get better,” Cerys said with another glare. “You’re of no use if the next vampire can claw you in half along the ready-made wound.”

Geralt tried to will the tension away from his body, but he didn’t succeed. Cerys noticed, her brow furrowing.

“I asked for your help because my father always spoke of you as the one person he could always count on.” She drew in a breath and released it, and a clammy, uncomfortable foreboding gripped Geralt.

“But I’m wondering if I was mistaken,” Cerys said in a rush. She met his eyes with a guarded gaze. “Maybe I should have solved this by myself, with my own people. This is a Skellige problem, and I think my plea for help has been seen as a sign of weakness by my jarls.”

“But—” Geralt said, searching for words. His heart was beating faster, and his chest was starting to hurt even more as his muscles tensed. “I came here willingly. I helped you to get the throne, and I’m helping now because we’re friends.”

Cerys’ face fell, and she took his hand. “I know, Geralt,” she said, a pained note in her voice. “I’m not driving you away, and your help is invaluable. I’m just saying that if you want to—to let the job go, I’d—”

“No,” Geralt said without thinking. “I don’t.”

He didn’t know _why_ he said it. Everything had gone to shit after he’d arrived to Skellige, and he’d caught himself wishing, half-heartedly, that he and Regis would just be able to go home, and still; the thought of abandoning a job this important made him nauseous.

Cerys squeezed his hand, and a rush of comfort registered through the bond. Dettlaff was watching him with a faint frown, clearly having just witnessed the confusing parade of emotions inside Geralt’s head.

“I’m sorry, Geralt, that was unfair of me,” Cerys said. She let his hand go and rubbed her eyes. “This is getting damned difficult.”

“I’ll complete the job, Cerys,” Geralt said quietly. “I’m going to find out what’s causing this.”

“I know you will,” Cerys told him, smiling sadly. They sat in silence for a while, and then Cerys rose to her feet. “I need to go. Please try to rest.”

“I’ll try,” Geralt answered. He knew it would be easier said than done; he could feel Regis reaching for him, and the knowledge that they were separated was getting to the point of becoming intolerable.

Cerys nodded to Dettlaff, and after she closed the door, Dettlaff got to his feet.

“Can you manage a few hours alone?” he asked. “I would like to go see Regis and Ivy. We need to make some plans.”

Geralt felt the apprehension come, and viciously clamped down on the feeling before it could trickle over to the bond. The thought of being left alone felt unsettling, and at the same time he was getting angry at himself. He’d bounced back from so much worse, and there hadn’t been anyone to coddle him then.

“Sure,” he grunted. He did his best to mask how much he wanted to leave the room, but Dettlaff saw through him. He leaned closer, and after hesitating for a while, laid a hand on Geralt’s shoulder.

“We’ll get you to him.”

Geralt swallowed, not meeting Dettlaff’s gaze. Shame was burning at the back of his throat, and the aching hope to see Regis battled that until he couldn’t tell the two apart.

“I promise I’ll come back,” Dettlaff added. “I just need to go by foot, so it’ll take me longer than flying,” he added in whisper, looking vaguely irritated. Geralt nodded.

Dettlaff opened his mouth to say something else, but then seemed to think better of it. He squeezed Geralt’s shoulder and then left, after fastening his heavy cloak and giving Geralt one last brush of comfort through the bond.

Geralt turned to look through the window, and after a while sunk into half-meditative state. It was easier to ignore the longing when he was so deep inside his head the real world faded mostly away.

 

He was jolted back to reality by the door opening. He blinked, saw the light had changed from the mid-morning haze to late afternoon glow, and then saw Leah smiling at him from the door.

“May I?” she asked, nodding towards the chair beside the bed.

“Sure,” Geralt said, shaking away the last tendril of haziness. Leah closed the door and walked to him, her feet making little sound as she moved. Geralt saw her movements were very graceful, and the way she walked reminded him of someone.

“Queen Cerys informed me you are feeling better and wish to continue the job,” Leah said after she had sat down and arranged her long skirt. Her back stayed straight like that of a professional dancer.

“Of course,” Geralt said. He gestured at his chest. “This looks bad, but I’ll be back on my feet soon.”

“Witcher mutations,” Leah nodded. “Accelerated healing and general hardiness. I’m seeing the stories of your caste were not exaggerated.” Her voice was smooth and pleasant, and her manner put Geralt more at ease.

“Yeah,” he said, giving her a half-smile. “We’re very hard to kill.”

“I see that,” Leah nodded. “Regardless, it seems advisable for you to stay put for some time. You looked half-dead when Dettlaff carried you out from the dungeon.”

Geralt pursed his lips, fighting against arguing. Leah regarded him serenely.

“You destroyed the runestone.” Leah’s tone wasn’t judging, but her eyes grew sharper.

Geralt remembered the way the light had distorted and flickered around the place of power, and how wrong it all had felt. Even thinking about it dragged back some of the unpleasant feeling.

“It was corrupted,” he explained. “I have no idea how, or why, but it was calling protofleders, and giving shape to the nightmare.” He fell silent, and then looked up. “Did you block the tunnel?”

Leah nodded. “We investigated, but found nothing in the tunnels under the keep. I locked the doors and warded them.”

“You’re a sorceress,” Geralt said, voice rising in question. He recalled the magical seal of the letter.

To his surprise, Leah shook his head. “I am not.”

“But you’re a magic user,” Geralt insisted, and the woman looked at him, eyes narrowed.

“Aye, but I never went to the schools you Continentals hold in such a high regard. I’m not a sorceress.” There was faint disdain in her eyes, but it was gone when Geralt recognized it. Leah sighed, and then gave him a dry smile. “It’s not very important. I know enough to keep my queen safe and protect the secrets that are entrusted to me.”

Geralt frowned. Leah didn’t look like a druidess or a flaminika, and when he tried to feel her magic, the faint brush he felt was distantly familiar, and yet distinctly different from what he remembered from the woman leading the circle of Caed Myrkvid.

“What is your plan to break the curse?” Leah asked, cutting through his whirring thoughts. Geralt relaxed against the pillows, thinking.

“I need to find something I’m looking for. I know the curse is linked to the myth of the god called Woden. A soothsayer called it the curse of losses.”

“A soothsayer?” Leah asked, her voice gaining an interested edge.

Geralt nodded. “I met one in Holmstein. She told me it’s a very old curse, something to do with a sacrifice the god made.”

Leah hummed, her fingers rubbing her skirt fabric, as if sorting through her thoughts with the sensory input. “I know of old songs, but this one is not familiar to me. Where will you find out more?”

Geralt opened his mouth to tell him of his deal with Jarl Sága, but then halted. He’d already told Leah much more than he’d intended. He blinked, trying to clear his head.

“I have to see if any of the druids here are familiar with the old legends,” he said, doing his best to keep his voice as normal as possible.

Leah cocked her head. “Queen Cerys will surely aid you. And Ermion as well, once he returns.”

“Hang on,” Geralt said. “I thought he was back already?” He tried to count the days, but was interrupted by Leah shaking her head.

“He was, but had to leave again. There is disturbance in Rogne. The last bout of the nightmares called forth spectres that lingered.”

Geralt sighed, nodding. He was reaching a point where nothing about the curse really surprised him any longer.

“But you must rest,” Leah said, rising to her feet. “The healer will come by later.”

Geralt nodded. “I’m going to continue the job as soon as I’m able.”

“You must not rush,” Leah said with another frown. There was something in her expression Geralt couldn’t decipher. “You are safe here.”

She left before Geralt could answer, and the witcher exhaled, looking at the ceiling. Something lingered, a vague feeling he couldn’t pinpoint, but which made him feel like he was being watched, or that someone was standing just behind him, breathing so quietly he barely heard it.

***

It was the third day after Geralt woke up when separation from Regis got too bad to handle.

Dettlaff woke to Geralt gasping and trashing, and the bond was just jagged edges and hurt by the time he got the witcher to wake up. Geralt stared at him, the fight draining away from his muscles as he took in the waking world, and then he curled up, shaking Dettlaff’s hands away and fighting to stop himself from falling apart.

Geralt’s wounds were healing, but the mental agony was worsening by the hour, and Dettlaff knew Regis wasn’t faring much better, sick with worry and guilt. He knew Ivy was there for Regis, holding him together, but watching his pack suffer was making Dettlaff ache. The aether around the witcher was rippling, and Dettlaff knew he had to leave the keep.

“I would not advise it,” Harald, the healer, said as he watched Geralt struggle upright on the bed. He was pale and sweating. The stitches had come out the same morning, but the wound looked angry and red against the pale skin.

“I have to go,” Geralt said in a strained voice, and while Harald took it as a sign of physical pain, Dettlaff knew it was more about trying to hold back the distress and hope; Geralt was hurting, but he wouldn’t heal until he managed to truly rest; that was proving impossible here.

Harald muttered instructions and warnings as he helped Geralt dress, who ended up forgoing the fixed armor in favor of just warm, thick clothes. Dettlaff felt the frustration ripple inside Geralt when he realized he’d need to lean on someone to make it outside his rooms. He was by the witcher’s side as soon as he rose to his feet, and Geralt accepted his arm around his waist with just a hint of a scowl.

“I made sure your horse is waiting for you,” Harald said as they made their slow way towards the doors. “The stable master moaned about the mare’s shoes, but I insisted on the same horse.”

“Joy,” Geralt said in a low voice, the first hint of a smile appearing.

Dettlaff looked at him in question, and the witcher chuckled, already tiring down.

“Her name’s Joy. Couldn’t name her Roach when I knew that.”

Dettlaff tried to understand what the witcher was saying, but he was distracted by Leah appearing by their side just as they stepped to the courtyard.

“Where on earth are you going?” she asked, eyes wide. Her hands were bunched together, the parchment she was holding crinkling badly.

“The witcher needs to go to the village,” Dettlaff said. Harald walked the mare, Joy, to Geralt who didn’t bother answering Leah. The horse snorted and bumped her muzzle against Geralt’s hand.

“He needs to heal,” Leah said, voice growing a touch more insistent. “He can’t leave, his wounds have barely closed.”

“I’m going,” Geralt said in a low growl, turning to face her. The horse apparently caught a whiff of Dettlaff, because her ears snapped back and whites of her eyes started to show. Geralt held the reins in his hand, face tight with pain.

Leah stepped closer. “You’re that desperate to get to your partner? To risk your health?” she whispered, her voice a smooth hiss.

Geralt went stiff, and a cold wave passed through the bond. He didn’t answer, just stared at Leah, who met his eyes with equal stubbornness. The horse, Joy, threw her head and tugged on the reins so hard Geralt nearly lost his balance.

The woman blew out an angry breath. “The queen needs you,” she continued. “Your priority should be breaking the curse.”

She left in a rush with an angry expression on her face. Dettlaff watched her go, and then turned back to Geralt. The witcher was looking at the ground, biting his lip, and Dettlaff felt him struggling to contain himself.

A note of the feeling reminded him of his own anger, and the way it sometimes ate his sanity, but before he managed to address it, Geralt looked up.

“Help me mount? I’ll keep her steady,” he asked, nodding towards the mare. The horse made a few unhappy snorts as Dettlaff punted Geralt into the saddle. He heard the witcher’s heart pumping fast, and could smell cortisol in his sweat. The wounds were bothering him, but not nearly enough to get him to stay at the keep a second longer.

Just as Geralt was prepared to urge Joy on, someone called out to him.

They turned their heads in unison, and then mutual anger made their bond vibrate; Oddleifr ran out of the doors, and then came to an abrupt stop several feet away from them, eyes wide and face haggard.

Dettlaff saw the man swallow, and he crushed the wish to just let his claws fly. Beside him, he heard Geralt drawing in several controlled breaths through his teeth, and his hatred for the man seemed too big to contain.

Dettlaff knew the witcher couldn’t fight, not in that condition. Quite apart from the fact that the queen wanted to keep the seneschal around, Dettlaff wasn’t inclined to let them sort out their issue now. He needed to get Geralt to Regis, it was the only thing that mattered at the moment.

He stepped closer, until he was standing face to face with the seneschal. The man was taller than him, but he seemed to shrink under his gaze, and Dettlaff pinned him in place.

“Back off,” he whispered. He knew the seneschal could read the situation as Dettlaff knowing what he had told Regis.

“I—” Oddleifr begun, voice rasping. He took half a step back. “I need to speak with the witcher.”

“You do not.”

The seneschal tried to step around Dettlaff, who reached out a hand and gripped his arm, hard.

“You will stay out of his business,” Dettlaff said, enunciating carefully and letting his loathing show, for a second.

Oddleifr shook his hand away. His expression was a mixture of agitation and anxiety. “I have something to say—”

“No.” Dettlaff whispered.

He didn’t allow the man to continue, turning around and taking the horse by the reins. Joy wickered nervously, but then followed him without any trouble.

Only when they were in the long, damp tunnel, Dettlaff finally turned to look at Geralt. The witcher was staring down at his hands, shoulders so tense they looked ready to snap. His breathing was shallow and measured.

“I wanted to kill him,” he whispered. He looked at Dettlaff, and some coherence returned to his gaze, which up until now had been just hazy with rage.

“I know.”

Geralt sagged a bit in the saddle, and bit back a grunt of discomfort as he did. His mind was again feeling exhausted, and the feeling worried Dettlaff more than his physical injuries.

“I think I would have, had I been able to fight,” Geralt added. He looked conflicted, and Dettlaff tried to soothe him.

“You have every right to feel that way.”

“No, that’s not what I mean,” the witcher said, shaking his head and looking more and more anxious. “I don’t know if I would’ve been able to stop myself, if—” He cut off when a guard passed them, the man in An Craite colors nodding at Geralt.

When Geralt met his eyes again, he looked less angry and more worried. Dettlaff reached for him through the bond, and was met with the familiar tiredness, mixing with shame.

“You told me about the mutations,” Dettlaff finally said when they emerged from the tunnel and into pale daylight. He spoke quietly, and the guards manning the bridge didn’t pay them any mind as his voice drowned into the sound of rushing water below them.

“It’s likely that they are the reason.”

“How come?” Geralt asked.

“You’ve seen how a vampire can react to, let’s say, scorn or betrayal,” Dettlaff continued. “That side may be starting to present in you, because you mixed Regis’ blood into the albumen. You’re becoming more like us.”

Geralt was silent for a long while. He didn’t look surprised, but his face stayed melancholy.

“I wanted that,” he said quietly, as they made their way down the path. “And still do.”

“I know,” Dettlaff answered. He finally gave up the reins, and Geralt accepted them with a nod. The mare shook her head and whinnied, sidestepping a bit to get further away from Dettlaff.

“But what if I’m not a good option for Regis?”

At first, Dettlaff thought he’d misheard. Then he turned to stare at Geralt, who met his eyes with a sad, stubborn face.

“What?” Dettlaff asked, when his voice at last started to work. “How could you say that?”

“I’m not one of you,” Geralt sighed, looking down again and letting Joy walk freely. “I’m human.”

“This is about what Ivy said, isn’t it?” Dettlaff cut in, his voice growing sharp. Geralt flinched, and he knew he’d been right.

“She said she made a mistake,” Dettlaff pressed on. “Her words were not coming from a place of compassion back then, for Regis nor you.”

“But still,” Geralt insisted, looking more and more like he regretted bringing this up. His head was a mess of conflict, and Dettlaff could tell the worry had been eating the witcher up.

“I’ve never seen Regis as happy as when he’s with you,” Dettlaff said. He was anxious to make Geralt understand. “When he regained consciousness, the first thing he asked about was you. He was depressed until I found out you were alive and well. After that, he wanted desperately to come find you, and even when he didn’t tell me everything about you, I guessed he was in love with you.”

Geralt looked away and blinked rapidly, shoulders tight. For a while, the only sounds were their steps on the gravel path, and the warbling of a single bird up on a high pine tree.

“Regis has been healing. And after you accepted the mating bond, he has had a home, which is something even I could never give to him,” Dettlaff went on, letting the words come. “During these days, he’s been worried sick about you, and feeling so guilty about lying to you about the seneschal.”

“I’m not angry,” Geralt murmured. His eyes were unfocused. “I just want him to be happy, and Ivy said I can’t give him that.”

“Ivy has her own problems,” Dettlaff spat out, his anger towards the female vampire rekindling. “She wanted Regis to know about the community she wishes to join.”

As the words fell out, Dettlaff realized he made a mistake. He had meant to let Ivy tell about the island and the community, but he had let it slip.

When he finally met Geralt’s eyes, they were wide. Dettlaff wanted to hit himself.

“Tell me,” Geralt asked in a quiet voice.

“It’s—I didn’t mean to say that,” Dettlaff whispered. He was burning up with shame, but before he managed to find a way out of the situation, Geralt’s side of the bond flared up.

“When will you start being honest with me?” the witcher growled. “How much else is there that I don’t know of?” He was growing angry, and underneath it was a hurt he tried to shove away.

Dettlaff opened and closed his mouth, anxiety coiling like a viper in his stomach; he’d made it so much worse. Geralt’s eyes were glistening with anger and something more fragile.

“I’m so fucking tired of this,” he said, turning to look away and pinching the bridge of his nose. “We can’t go on this way.”

Dettlaff couldn’t meet his gaze, and the rest of the way was made in stifled silence.

***

Geralt felt his knees give out the second he slid down from his horse, and strong arms came up to hold him. Then the bond flared like a white hot ray of sun inside his head, and Regis was down on the ground with him, holding him so tight he had trouble breathing. Dettlaff, who had caught him, stayed close and tried to ease the alarm.

Regis’ breath was coming in frantic gasps, and Geralt realized he wasn’t doing much better. Dettlaff’s presence had soothed his mind so much in the past few days, but now his chest was growing tight with pain he couldn’t identify, and even having Regis close to him again didn’t help it. He felt the hollow cold again, and it made him stiffen with fear. He’d thought he had been feeling like shit, but this was so much worse, because now Regis was _here_ , and he still couldn’t—

“Geralt,” Regis breathed, drawing back. He was crying, but didn’t seem to notice. “I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, I love you.”

“You—” Geralt begun, but his voice caught in his throat. Noises around were growing faint, because the cold was rushing up inside of him, and he felt the chilly water lap at his heart. He feared Regis would go away and leave him alone, would choose to go to the community.

He wanted to sink into the warmth that was Regis, but something was wrong inside his head; the bond kept blinding him with flashes of light, but it didn’t reach him all the way. There were jagged edges everywhere, and his wounds were aching so badly he had trouble breathing. Distinctly, he remembered Harald’s warnings.

“I needed you,” Geralt gasped, and the expression on his mate’s face broke his heart. It was like he’d hit Regis.

The cold water reached his heart and he drew in a breath. Something was wrong. Regis was trying to reach him, and he felt like the rays of light were pushing him under the surface, making him drown.

“Geralt!” Regis called out, his voice hoarse with fear.

Geralt’s eyes slipped closed, and as he slumped down, he heard another voice. A woman, growling something unintelligible to Regis, and Dettlaff murmuring to him, his dark voice the sole tether to sanity.

Then darkness swallowed him whole.

 

When he came to, the world seemed a touch less invasive. Geralt opened his eyes, and saw he was in a room that looked like it might belong to the village inn. The sunlight filtering through the curtains was red-tinted, and he concluded he must’ve been unconscious for hours.

Regis was sleeping curled up around him. He still had tear tracks down his face, and the sight caused a jolt of pain inside Geralt’s heart.

_What the hell had happened?_

Then he registered someone else behind him. A brush of reassurance came through the bond.

“You’re safe,” Dettlaff murmured. His hand was resting on Geralt’s shoulder. “We brought you here a few hours ago.”

Geralt sunk into the bond, and it touched the hurting parts of his mind gently, as if assessing the damage.

“What happened?” he asked. His voice was hoarse.

He felt Dettlaff shift, a comforting weight against his back.

“You overworked yourselves. A mating bond is an intense thing, and the curse attacked it. When you finally saw each other again, it tried to strike back.”

“The bond felt broken,” Geralt whispered, and he hated how scared he sounded.

He remembered the horror he’d felt at the realization that he couldn’t feel Regis properly. He had been in front of Geralt, and there had been only a storm of hurt to meet him when he’d tried to reach for his mate.

“Regis said the same thing,” Dettlaff said. His thumb moved in calming sweeps where it rested. “When we got you here, he refused to let you go. He was almost frantic. I did my best to calm you both. I hope you don’t mind.”

Geralt didn’t know if Dettlaff was apologizing for holding him close, or something else, but he could only feel gratitude welling up inside him. Something about them sleeping close together brought back distant memories of childhood, when he’d snuggled up with Eskel after nightmares.

“I don’t mind,” Geralt rasped. “Thank you.” He tried to convey his feelings via the bond, and after a while he felt something like shy wonder meet him. There was the same shadow of shame Geralt had felt from Dettlaff when the vampire had accidentally blurted out the truth about Ivy’s motives.

Regis stirred. His eyes blinked open slowly, and Geralt automatically hugged him closer. He felt thinner than a week before.

Regis met his eyes, and Geralt felt him reach out through the bond very carefully. Without thinking, Geralt pressed his forehead against Regis’ just as he felt his mind unclench, and the bond begun to flow more freely.

Regis gasped and went slack with relief, but it was nothing compared to the overwhelming sensation of safety that flooded Geralt. Dettlaff felt it too, for he made a relieved sigh behind his back as he relaxed.

“I’m so, so sorry,” Regis whispered. Geralt pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, but Regis’ chest was heaving again as he fought against tears.

“I wanted to come to you,” he continued, voice growing tight and desperate. “I wanted to, but I couldn’t, and it almost killed me.”

“I forgive you,” Geralt whispered. “Dettlaff told me about the seneschal.” He didn’t add how he’d wanted to go rip the man to pieces.

Regis felt it, and he curled up on himself. Shame and fear were rattling inside him, and Geralt tried to reach him.

“I should’ve come,” Regis said in a hoarse voice. “I shouldn’t have stayed behind when you almost died, when my place is with you.”

“Regis, Regis, shh,” Geralt said, holding him tight and winding one hand into his messy hair. “I forgive you. I love you.”

Regis drew in a breath, and then the tension seemed to overcome him before it snapped like dry ice. He went slack and started to heave with silent sobs, and Geralt held him tightly. Dettlaff reached to grip Regis’ shoulder over him, and they stayed there for a long time, in a tight-knit bundle.

When Regis finally calmed down, his eyes were bloodshot and exhausted. Geralt stroked his hair back from his face, and sent another wave of comfort through the bond.

“Hey,” he whispered. Regis finally met his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. He looked hesitant, and the expression hurt Geralt’s heart. He kissed Regis softly, and the vampire gripped him tight as he finally pressed closer on the bed.

Dettlaff got up and looked at them. His face looked paler than usual, but his eyes were kind.

“I’ll go now. I need to find Ivy. We’ll see each other tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” Geralt said quietly, and Dettlaff gave him a smile before dissolving into mist. He lingered for a second, before rushing out through the window.

Geralt turned back towards Regis, whose eyes looked bottomless in the fading light.

“How are you feeling?” Regis asked. His fingers carefully climbed from Geralt’s hip to his hair, and the witcher sighed with relief at the contact.

“I’ll live.”

“How is your wound doing?”

Geralt knew he’d overdone just about everything during the ride down, but he managed a smile.

“Been better, to be honest. But I couldn’t stay there.”

Regis pressed still closer, tucking his nose into Geralt’s neck and drawing a deep breath, as he usually did when he wanted to comfort himself.

“I couldn’t sleep after you left,” Regis murmured, his lips moving against Geralt’s neck. “I knew I made a mistake, and I wanted to throw all caution to the wind and fly to you, tell you everything.”

Geralt didn’t answer, and Regis pulled back to meet his eye. “Then you shut me out.” His voice was flat, but the bond hadn’t settled properly yet, and Geralt felt an echo of the sharp, alarmed sorrow.

“I’m sorry,” he said in turn, cupping Regis’ face. “I wanted to give you space. And I wasn’t able to focus on anything, I could only think about how much of a moron I was.”

Regis grimaced. “Ivy found me immediately after you left. She told me what she had said.”

Another memory, this one tinted red with anger but with bottomless fear. Geralt swallowed and pressed his forehead against Regis’.

“Dettlaff accidentally told me about the community.”

Regis flinched, pulling back and staring at Geralt. His breathing became shallow again, and Geralt tried to press the alarm back so they could talk. After a while, Regis slumped down, and he blinked rapidly as he met Geralt’s gaze.

“I swear to the elders I did not know about that before you left,” Regis whispered. “I had no idea.”

“I believe you,” Geralt murmured. He pressed a short kiss to Regis’ mouth. “What’s the deal with that?”

Regis sighed, searching for words. “There is apparently an island north of Spikeroog, where higher vampires have founded a place of their own. They are very selective about who they allow in, and Ivy wants her children to have a chance to join.”

“And she wanted you to know, too,” Geralt finished for Regis, who nodded after a while, shame making his expression pinched. Geralt continued stroking Regis’ hair in silence.

He wanted to ask what Regis was thinking about this, but something told him it was too soon. They were both hurting and exhausted, and right now wasn’t a good moment to talk about anything.

“We can come back to that later,” Geralt said, and Regis’ looked startled. He opened his mouth to protest, and Geralt pressed on: “We will talk about this, but not now. It’s too soon.”

Regis closed his mouth very slowly and then nodded, understanding making him relax.

“It is,” he agreed very quietly. As he gradually let the tension go, their bodies fit together seamlessly, like they had done in the past.

“I would like to check your wounds, and then just be with you. I would like to hold you while you sleep,” Regis went on, his fingers stroking Geralt’s cheek feather-light, as if trying to commit his skin and bones into memory.

Geralt nodded, and was satisfied to make it into a sitting position without help. Regis gently tugged his shirt off, but then his eyes went wide and scared again.

When Geralt looked down, it was like he was seeing the gash for the first time. It had closed, but the prolonged stress had slowed down healing. The ragged edges stood out like an exclamation mark, and only now did he fully grasp how close to death he must have been when Dettlaff had saved him.

Regis’ hand was hovering, until it slowly reached for him and then ghosted along the wound, barely touching. Geralt’s eyes swept over Regis, but the vampire was stuck inside his head, mouth slightly open and eyes tracking the damage.

When Regis looked up at last, his eyes were dry but haunted.

“I should have been there.”

Geralt’s hand was behind Regis’ head before the vampire could utter another word, and then Geralt pulled him into a kiss. It wasn’t light and comforting like before, but insistent and a little angry. Regis gasped into Geralt’s mouth, and Geralt bit his lip hard, mind ablaze with something he couldn’t find a name for. It was protectiveness mixed with frustration and sheer love, and still none of those.

When he finally pulled back, Regis’ eyes stayed closed for a short while, and he was breathing hard, gripping Geralt’s hands.

“You were trying to protect me, and then we both screwed up,” Geralt said in a low voice. “You’re not taking the blame for this.”

Regis opened his eyes and looked ready to protest, but then he halted. Geralt felt the words hovering at the tip of his tongue, and he waited, ready to push again.

“I just wish I could have protected you better,” Regis finally whispered, looking sad as the tension gradually abated.

“You can’t hold my hand through everything,” Geralt said, his mouth quirking up into a smile, and after a second Regis mirrored the expression.

“No, but I wish I could,” he said. Then he focused back on the wound, this time with a determined expression. “Whoever stitched you up clearly knew what they were doing.”

Geralt smiled, wide and genuine. “You remember Harald? He’s come back to Skellige.”

Regis’ expression cleared, and his bright smile made Geralt feel much better. “Indeed? You were in luck, then.”

“I know,” Geralt chuckled. “He wasn’t happy to let me go, though.”

“Mm, I can imagine. I’m tempted to confine you to bed for the foreseeable future,” Regis said with a nod, hands regaining their easy movements as he inspected the smaller injuries. He still looked tired, but something shifted in the bond, and it was once again flowing with no obstruction. Sensing that put both of them more at ease with each other, and Geralt understood how damn much he’d missed the feeling.

“If you stay with me, I think I can be persuaded,” Geralt threw at Regis, who rolled his eyes, but couldn’t mask the delighted rush that went through him and the bond. Feeling it, feeling Regis again was wonderful, Geralt thought as the vampire carefully prodded him. He’d missed the ebb and flow, and how comforting it was on a deeply personal level.

***

Dettlaff didn’t have to look for Ivy. He focused, and that faint thread he’d felt taking shape earlier nudged him, making him fly high up the cliffs and rocks, to a place no human would be able to reach. He materialized at the highest point that overlooked the vast expanse of the sea, and as the cold wind tugged at his cloak he felt some of the agitation finally slip away.

Dettlaff spent a moment watching the sun disappear behind the western horizon, and the pale, dimming light made worries quieten; he felt Regis calming down, and Geralt’s tension yield to comfort. His pack was safe, for now.

The thread pulled at him, and eventually Dettlaff gave in to it with a sigh. He carefully climbed down from his vantage, and a short search revealed a nook in the cliff face. The wind didn’t howl quite so insistently inside it, and there was a toppled boulder pressed against the stone. Ivy was sitting there, watching the sundown and looking tired.

“You came,” she said when Dettlaff made no move to approach.

“You keep calling for me,” Dettlaff said after considering his options. The last time he had mentioned this, Ivy had attacked him; now he was cautiously hoping for an answer.

Ivy gestured towards the boulder, and Dettlaff finally sat down next to her. She was wrapped up in her orange cloak, ever meticulous with her human appearance. Her hair was spilling out of its braid in a way that reminded Dettlaff of her child, Gina.

“How are they?” Ivy asked, turning to look at him. Dettlaff found meeting her gaze wasn’t nearly as awkward now.

“Better. Geralt will heal properly now that he is with his mate,” Dettlaff told her. He hesitated, and then went on. “Regis will be able to think clearly again.”

Ivy nodded, looking back towards the sea. She didn’t move, but Dettlaff sensed her pulling in on herself.

“Were I able to undo what I did, I would,” she murmured. “I would find another way to tell Regis about the community, one that didn’t involve hurting his mate and him so much.”

“Why did you say those things to Geralt?” Dettlaff asked. The anger came and went, but this time it was only one note inside his mind; he wanted to understand what Ivy had been thinking. “Why tell Regis at all? He was _happy_. For the first time in his life he was truly happy.”

Dettlaff remembered when Regis had woken up for the first time after his body had reformed enough. He’d let out a wheeze that Dettlaff had recognized as a scream, and then he had almost broken himself as he had tried to scramble away from what had killed him. When Dettlaff had managed to calm him down, Regis’ eyes had turned desperate.

 _“Geralt,”_ he’d whispered in a voice that was barely there. _“I need_ — _He is my—”_

Dettlaff hadn’t been able to tell Regis whether the witcher was alive, but when his charge had broken down, he’d resolved himself to find out as soon as possible.

Ivy glanced at him, and her eyes were full of emotion.

“I… Isn’t it better to know?” she asked in whisper. “What if he had found out later? How would he have felt when he had realized I had not told him?”

“But who are you to him?” Dettlaff asked in response, not unkindly. “I know you have been growing close, but you have no idea what Regis and Geralt have been through.”

“Regis mentioned they were separated,” Ivy said quietly, but her voice was still constricted with shame.

“A sorcerer melted him down in front of Geralt’s eyes,” Dettlaff said bluntly. A shadow of doubt made him second-guess telling Ivy that, but at the same time he was somehow certain revealing the past would help. It was impossible to explain that feeling.

Ivy’s eyes widened as she understood. “He calls you brother, but you’re not originally Gharasham.”

Dettlaff gave a minute nod, breaking eye contact. “I brought him back. We’re blood-bound.”

“Why did you do it?”

Dettlaff swallowed. He knew he’d have to explain this part of himself if he wanted answers to why Ivy had called him to Skellige.

“He called to me,” he said, beckoning the memories. “I sense things about people I meet, at times. Something tells me when they have the potential to become important to me.”

“Regis was one of them?” Ivy asked with a faint frown. There was understanding in her eyes.

“He was,” Dettlaff agreed. “I met him when he was young and reckless, and back then I knew I’d need to keep an eye on him.” He fell silent, because untangling the feeling wasn’t any easier now, even when he knew what Regis was to him.

“Is it love?” Ivy asked, and Dettlaff shrugged.

“Not romantic, but familial. I don’t know how to describe it.”

“Were you not trained in this?” Her words made Dettlaff’s head snap back towards her, something hot and uncomfortable going through him.

When Ivy saw his expression, her frown deepened. “You’re like me. A dreamwalker. That is why you sense people differently.”

“A what?” Dettlaff’s voice had gone hoarse. There was an unpleasant pain starting at the back of his skull, simultaneously burning and cold. His hands crawled into fists.

For a spell, Ivy looked disbelieving, and then she drew in a breath. Her mouth fell open, and that alone told Dettlaff how off-guard she was; he could see her fangs.

“You don’t know,” Ivy said as if to herself. “You don’t know what you are.”

“Explain to me,” Dettlaff blurted out. He was distantly surprised how pleading his tone was. Ivy heard it, too.

“I’m not sure I’m the right person for that—” she begun, but Dettlaff cut her off with a desperate look.

“Please.” The word fell into the silence, and the wind seemed to carry it away, throwing the whisper towards the sea.

Ivy closed her eyes and exhaled as she wrapped her arms around herself. Dettlaff forced himself to wait until she was ready, even when he felt like his skin was suddenly too small to contain him.

When Ivy spoke, she was clearly untangling something she had not been made explain in a very long time. “I’m a dreamwalker. I’m able to enter people’s dreams, pass through them, and to see what they truly are.” She swallowed. “It’s a rare skill, and a dangerous one.”

“How is it dangerous?” Dettlaff asked. The pain kept pulsing inside his brain, but he felt a clawing, ardent need to know.

Ivy looked at him. The last of the hostility was gone, and its place had been taken by disbelief.

“ _How_ can you not know?” she asked, gesturing to him. “It’s as natural as breathing.”

Dettlaff drew in a breath to say something, but right then a memory resurfaced; he felt the pack leader reach _into_ him, he felt the nauseating twist again, and the rest was a blur.

When he wrenched himself free, he found he was shaking.

“I can’t dream.”

Ivy’s expression shifted from incredulity to pure dread, then. She recoiled and her eyes flashed pale. The aether around her shuddered with the force of her reaction before swirling protectively.

“Who did this to you?” she asked in a faint voice. Her eyes never left Dettlaff’s. “Who would do such a thing?”

Dettlaff shook his head, trying to get rid of the pain and the suffocating confusion. Before he realized what was happening, Ivy moved. In a flash, she was standing in front of him, hands on his shoulders and pressing his back against the stone.

“You can’t take away dreams,” she hissed vehemently. The horror was giving way to anger, but Dettlaff was shocked to see that feeling not directed at himself.

“I don’t— It has been like this almost as long as I have been alive, there is no other way I know,” he stammered, mind aflame with a need to push Ivy away and never speak of this again. He knew it was an impossibility, but he was suddenly so _scared._

“It will break your mind!” Ivy bit out, eyes going pale again and fangs bared in a snarl. “Forcing a dreamwalker out of the dreamscape is _cruel_ , it is not done, _ever_!”

“They did it to me!” Dettlaff finally shouted back. He tried to shove Ivy back, but she gave another furious growl and didn’t budge.

“If you can’t dream, you become dangerous!” she went on with a grimace. “You lash out!”

The fight left him, then. Suddenly Dettlaff couldn’t hold her gaze any longer. He knew his face had shifted, but he didn’t bother to call back the disguise as he sagged back, a profound sense of defeat dampening all fire inside him.

Ivy’s hands loosened but didn’t leave his shoulders. She stared at him in confusion for a while, and then gasped softly.

“You already have.”

There was no use denying it. Dettlaff nodded.

A silence fell, only the wind whistled in the cracks and nooks of the rock around them. Then Ivy’s hands were gone. For a second Dettlaff expected her to vanish or attack him, and he braced himself for the latter. He knew he was a danger to everyone around himself, always had been, and always would be.

When a cold hand cupped his cheek he thought he was imagining things. At a tiny nudge, Dettlaff allowed his head be turned towards Ivy, who was looking at him like she was seeing him for the first time. Her eyes were enormous, but there was no longer any trace of anger or fear. Instead her face was wrought with sad understanding.

“I have dreamed you,” she whispered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	12. Anchor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, sorry for the cliffhanger. My writing style just rambles so much that at some point I have to cut the action in half and live with my guilt. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
> 
> Beta by [Tsurai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsurai/pseuds/tsurai).

“Dreamed me?” Dettlaff asked, blinking. Ivy was standing so close he smelled every note of her flowery perfume. She had a small mole at the corner of her mouth and just a hint of crows feet.

“You just told me you feel people, even if you can’t dream,” Ivy whispered. “I have dreamed of you for years, but your face has always been hidden. I didn’t think you actually existed.”

Dettlaff’s head was feeling foggy with all the information, but Ivy’s reveal stayed at the forefront. He wanted to pull back from her, but didn’t.

“How do you know it is me, then?” he asked.

Ivy gave him a small smile and straightened up. She pushed her hair back, but the wind was picking up and whipped the dark brown strands here and there.

“I feel that,” she said with a shrug. “I feel you now. Just as you feel me.”

Dettlaff knew she was referring to the thread, how it seemed to grow stronger the more they talked to each other. He still didn’t like the idea, or the feeling of sensing Ivy, the first hints of her moods bleeding through like wisps of smoke.

“Why do I feel you? What is it?” His voice betrayed some of his nerves, and he guessed Ivy was starting to feel him, because her face suddenly grew gentle.

“It’s not any rubbish like destiny or soul mates that humans talk about,” she explained, waving her hand towards the village. “It’s a thing that happens to dreamwalkers. You’re not supposed to go alone.”

“Go where?” Dettlaff asked. He was hopelessly out of his depth.

“To dreams, where else?” Ivy said with a frown. Then she blew out a breath and rubbed her eyes. “Forgive me. It just feels so—improbable that you would not know the first thing about this thing that is such a huge part of you.” She sounded sincere, and Dettlaff pushed his worry back to maintain a clear head. The pain was finally easing away.

Ivy sat down again and turned to face him. There was a sort of ease about her, as if understanding one piece of the puzzle was making her more confident. Dettlaff kept his breathing steady, remembering Regis’ words on how you could fool your body into being calm even when you felt like the foundations were crumbling from under you.

“Dreamwalking means the ability to consciously enter other people’s dreams,” Ivy begun, arranging her skirt neatly. “It’s an innate thing, it cannot be learned. Either you have the skill or you don’t, and very, very few of our kind do.”

“Does it mean only other vampires’ dreams?” Dettlaff asked. A spark of curiosity was kindling inside him.

Ivy shook her head. “No. Any sentient being, although there are differences between, say, humans and vampires, or Aen Seidhe.” She looked thoughtful for a moment. “Dreamwalking is dangerous, because it’s easy to get lost.”

“Lost?” Dettlaff echoed.

“It’s your, well—essence. Soul, if you want a pretty word for it,” Ivy said, cocking her head. “If you get lost and can’t find your way back, you’re done.”

“Even higher vampires?”

Ivy’s face turned dark all of a sudden. “Some of us think we’re nearly immortal, but our bodies can’t live on indefinitely without a spirit to inhabit the shell. So yes, even a higher vampire will die if they go too deep into the subconscious.”

“When I brought Regis back, he said he had almost lost himself,” Dettlaff muttered, eyes going unfocused as he recalled his brother’s words. “He told me he had drifted deeper and deeper into something dark.”

Ivy stared at him. “A spirit will eventually disappear, if it lacks a body to inhabit. The aether binds us to our physical dimension.”

“How?” Dettlaff was suddenly certain Regis would be desperately interested in this topic.

Ivy bit her lip as she searched for words. “We are what we are, at our core. We have a body, but it’s different from humans, because we can change it if we want that badly enough. The aether resonates with us differently than it does with humans or the elder races. It makes us whole.”

“How do you know all this?” Dettlaff asked. He watched Ivy closely, but there was nothing sage or otherworldly about her; her eyes had stayed in their true form, but otherwise she looked very human. Tired and, contrary to just some days ago, not minding his presence at all.

“You forget I have been a dreamwalker for over three hundred years,” Ivy told him with a slight smile. “I was educated in everything, because my birth pack had another with the skill.”

“But what is dreamwalking, exactly? What is it for?” he asked. It bothered him, not understanding something that seemed absolutely self-evident to Ivy. 

Ivy gave a huff of laughter. “What is any skill for? Why is Regis able to store away so much more knowledge than most of us? Why am I able to enter other people’s dreams? They just are, there is no grand plan behind it all.” Her eyes were kind, and the expression made Dettlaff relax. “But it is useful, don’t get me wrong. Mental troubles, traumas and such can be treated with it. It can also be just fun.”

“Fun?” Dettlaff didn’t understand, and when Ivy actually snorted and looked away he found he understood even less. She then looked back at him.

“But as I said, it is dangerous. It’s very easy to wander too far if you go alone.”

“Why?” He didn’t feel bad about asking question after question anymore. It was like trying to understand a whole new language.

“A mind is a complex thing, and dreams don’t follow any waking logic. Dreamscape isn’t stable, and without an anchor the layers shift so much it’s hard to keep track of where you entered.” Ivy saw his confusion and gestured to him. “Dreamwalkers sense people who can be their anchors. That is what we’re feeling, and what I’m thinking you felt for Regis, initially. It just means that two people have sufficiently similar spirits that they can communicate via the aether.”

“But I am nothing like Regis,” Dettlaff blurted out, without meaning to. It came out with a hint of bitterness, and he knew Ivy picked up on it. She ignored his tone.

“But you love him like a brother anyway, don’t you?” she asked with a sharp look. “Despite being like night and day, despite all apparent things that should make you not like each other? That’s what I mean by your spirits being similar.”

Dettlaff didn’t know what to say. He was struggling to digest everything, even when it made some inherent sense. Before he allowed himself to accept Ivy’s theory he pulled himself back to reality with a sigh.

“Even if I were a dreamwalker like you, there really isn’t much point to this,” he said without meeting her gaze. “As I said, I can’t dream.”

There was a silence, and when Dettlaff couldn’t take it anymore, he glanced at Ivy. He was surprised to see she was looking contemplative.

“I wonder…” she murmured to herself. She stared at the horizon for a long time, looking deep in thought, and then straightened up.

“Do you  _ want  _ to dream?” she asked without any preamble, catching Dettlaff off guard. He blinked. Ivy waited patiently.

“I can’t,” Dettlaff finally said. “They took away my dreams.”

Ivy shook her head, and her face turned hard. “It’s impossible to take away someone’s dreams. I’m thinking they placed a mental blockade, something that you instinctively shy away from, so you wouldn’t go poking around.”

“What does that mean?”

Ivy smiled. “It means that another dreamwalker can pull you into the dreamscape and help you get rid of it. It won’t be easy, but I think it’s possible.” She fell silent, and then the smile fell away and she added much more quietly: “You’d be able to dream again. On your own.”

Dettlaff felt a dull ringing inside his head. He tried to understand, but his heart was beating fast, and he wanted to turn into mist and drift away with the wind until his head would clear a bit.

He was shaken out of his dull reverie by Ivy taking his hand. Her fingers were very delicate compared to his.

“I’m sorry, I know it’s a lot to take in at once,” she said. “You don’t trust me, for a good reason, so I imagine you have little incentive to want my help in anything. But,” she went on, not allowing Dettlaff to interrupt, “you need help. Blocking dreams is dangerous.  _ You  _ are dangerous. Not because you want to be, but still.”

Her words rattled their way into Dettlaff’s core, and he wanted to leave. He wanted to leave Skellige and never come back, and never think about any of this again.

But he remembered how the air had reeked of blood and smoke in Beauclair. He remembered the fraying sanity as he’d pushed his will inside the heads of hundreds of lesser vampires, everything tinged red and black with the hatred that consumed him. He had been there, completely and irrevocably, present and accountable, and he had done all that anyway.

He had killed Rhena, he had killed Syanna. It was all the same, because even when he had only meant to talk, he had still driven his claws through the heart of a woman who had no way to defend herself from him. She had hurt him and used him, but had she truly deserved to die?

He had loved her even when his own hand had torn through her heart.

“I’m not sure I deserve help, even if I could trust you this much,” Dettlaff said quietly.

To his surprise, Ivy’s hand moved, and then her fingers flicked painfully against his temple. Dettlaff turned around, a protest forming, when he realized her expression was frustrated. He had seen her look at her children like that.

“Are you stupid?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “I’m offering to help because if no one does, eventually you’ll hurt someone again. What if you hurt Regis, or Geralt?”

Dettlaff recoiled and drew in on himself, because that was what he was afraid of; he was holding on for now, but what would happen in the future? He couldn’t live with himself if he harmed his pack.

He dragged himself away from the black and hopeless fear and looked at Ivy.

“Why do you care if I hurt them? I don’t want to, but what is it to you?”

Ivy bit her lip again, almost drawing blood. She looked at him for a long time, indecision written all over her. It took Dettlaff a while to understand that he was, in fact, curious. He had categorized Ivy as a threat that he needed to keep an eye on, but now he was starting to second-guess his reasoning. Something made Regis like and even trust her, and Dettlaff wanted to know what Ivy’s motivations were.

“Regis reminds me of all the best sides of my former mate,” Ivy suddenly said. She inhaled sharply as if to brace herself as Dettlaff’s eyes widened.

“I’m not interested in him, not in any romantic capacity,” Ivy rushed to explain, averting her gaze with a mulish expression. “But he is so intelligent and well-articulated. Talking with Regis feels like I have a tiny bit of my good past back.”

Then her eyes grew pained and her back hunched, as if a great weight had been placed on her. “But Regis is also nothing like my mate. He is kind and gentle, and it’s so different from most higher vampires I have met.”

“That he is,” Dettlaff agreed numbly.

“Regis doesn’t resonate with me, not like you do, but I—I wish I wouldn’t have to lose him,” Ivy continued. It was clear she was forcing herself to push the words out.

“You have only known each other for a fortnight.” Dettlaff didn’t mean to sound insulting, because he knew how fast it was possible to get that feeling you just had to get to know the other person better. 

“I know, and I haven’t behaved in a way that would merit anything,” Ivy nodded, eyes cloudy with sorrow. “But meeting Regis reminded me how it feels to have a friend who’s your equal. I have spent a long time with just my children, and while I love them with all my heart, it is not the same thing as having a friend.”

Dettlaff sighed. He was troubled to find himself believing Ivy’s words. He knew that feeling, because it was exactly the way he had felt after Regis had woken up after recovering enough of his physical body, and they had started to trust in one another. It had been slow and hesitant, but both of them had been willing to give it a chance.

The first time Regis had rolled over in his sleep and reached for him, Dettlaff had spent a long while trying to parse what he was feeling. He had put away his book and lied down, and after some time Regis had calmed, slipping into deeper sleep once he was being held. What Dettlaff had experienced had been a gentle sort of warmth, but nothing like what he had felt for his lover; there was an undercurrent of respect, only lacking in the distance he had expected.

The temptation to accept Ivy’s offer to help him was unsettling. He still knew practically nothing of her, and he was considering letting her inside his head?

“What does an anchor do, exactly?” he asked, trying to steer the conversation into something safer for a moment. Ivy glanced at him, clearly picking up on his intention to catch a break. She cleared her throat.

“They form another kind of a bond, which ties them together so that getting lost in the dreamscape is not so likely. They can enter the dream together or the other one can stay awake. The latter is the safest option, because a link to the waking world is the strongest path back.”

A silence followed, and Dettlaff gazed out at the sea. Moon was casting silvery hues on the open water, and even when he wasn’t bothered by the cold, he still registered it as something that calmed him. Stars were twinkling above them, and he tracked familiar constellations. That pale, indifferent light had comforted him on several occasions when life had felt overwhelming or a touch too intense.

He couldn’t help wondering about Ivy’s offer. She had turned around completely after driving a wedge between Regis and Geralt; Dettlaff was slowly coming around to the idea of trying to trust her, because the incident had shaken her to her core. He knew it would be harder for her to lie to him now that they had taken steps to forge mutual respect; he felt her hovering right at the edge of his mind, not there yet, but if everything she told him about dreamwalking was true, they could grow closer.

But the thought made him take a mental step back. He still knew next to nothing about her. All she had given him was information about the skill she claimed he had, buried under the trauma of his past. Nothing personal or intimate about herself that would have reassured Dettlaff receiving help wasn’t a colossal mistake.

“What happened to your mate?” he asked bluntly, then. It was a cruel question, but if she refused to answer, he’d know he couldn’t trust her. He had to find a way to perceive who she truly was, because without the removal of masks there was no way to see who he was dealing with.

He heard Ivy’s soft intake of breath, and he could smell her anxiety; it wasn’t much unlike fear. He waited without turning to look at her. Ivy was quiet for a long while, her breaths coming shallow and unsteady.

“Her name was Sinja.”

Ivy swallowed, hard. “She walked alone when we met each other. We fell in love, and she took me away from my birth pack. I didn’t know better then, I was very young. We spent a long time wandering, never settling down. She was a scholar to her core, almost obsessively interested in the Conjunction and our home world.

“Eventually I wanted to settle down. It took a long time to convince Sinja, but we found a place for ourselves. It...didn’t last.

“She left because she didn’t want me any longer.” Ivy’s voice was so faint he almost missed the words. When they hit home, Dettlaff whirled around without a thought, because it was so  _ unthinkable _ . Mating was a commitment, a choice that built the bond, sparked the physical change that created packs. It wasn’t impossible to break, but he had never heard of anyone doing so willingly.

“What?” he asked in a hoarse voice. Ivy met his horrified gaze with misery written all over her. The thread grew in that second, and the ache flashed across Dettlaff’s mind. With a jolt, Dettlaff grasped he was allowed a glimpse into something that was unhealed and still bleeding.

For a second he didn’t understand why Ivy would show this to him, but then it clicked with a deafening echo; she had told him and Regis she would make amends in any way possible. Dettlaff had just never expected that the promise would encompass him, too.

In that moment, he felt something give. Something that had been hurting because it had remained tense and ready for danger yielded, and a softer feeling followed at its heels; Dettlaff recognized the shape of the wound Ivy was showing him, because he had carried that same hurt ever since Dun Tynne; ever since he’d learned Rhena had used him.

 

“Entering dreamscape is...weird. It’s been over three centuries, and I still remember my first time.”

“Weird?”

A laugh. “I keep forgetting you don’t dream. Alright. Conscious dreaming differs from normal dreams. You enter through what is called a reliance path, it’s the place where the bond with your anchor runs through.”

“Why is it called that?”

“It’s something about yourself that you need to show your anchor to demonstrate trust. I don’t know how your mind picks it, and it differs from anchor to anchor.”

“I’m not sure I like this.”

A silence, and then a gentler tone. “The choice is yours.”

Another silence, this one less tense.

“Show me how.”

 

He thought falling asleep there would be hard, but Ivy’s breathing grew steady and deep, and then the thread tugged him under. It was soft, and when he tried to resist he was able to tell he could rip himself out from it if he wanted.

He didn’t, and then reality spun around him for a while. He couldn’t remember what dreaming felt like, but then he landed into his workshop, back home in Nazair. He could instantly tell it was a dream; the walls around him looked solid, but they shifted according to how he looked at them and what he felt.

Ivy stood next to him, looking around with a curious expression.

“This is a place where you felt safe.”

Dettlaff nodded. He remembered the last weeks he’d spent here with Regis, and that was a good memory. Thinking about it called back an echo of their conversation, something of no great importance, but which demonstrated the trust they had managed to forge.

Ivy’s eyes followed Regis as he walked into the room and came to lean against the desk where Dettlaff saw himself working on something. Regis was thinner and had less hair than the present version of him, but in the dream he was smiling as he teased Dettlaff, who grinned back and abandoned the woodcarving for a while.

“This is my home in Nazair,” Dettlaff said quietly. “Was. The way it was when Regis was still healing, before—” He cut himself off, and Ivy gave his shoulder a faint squeeze.

“You don’t have to tell me anything. Just being here is enough for our purposes.”

The dream quivered, and someone knocked on the door. The persons of Dettlaff’s dream didn’t react to it in any way, and Ivy walked to the door. She opened it, but instead of the town Dettlaff knew so well, there was only a path outside. She held the door open for him, and Dettlaff followed her outside.

His eyes landed on a young boy sitting in the grass. He had shoulder-length dark brown hair, and his eyes were a familiar shade of hazel. He stopped fiddling with a blade of grass as they stepped out, and met Dettlaff’s eye with a defiant frown. Dettlaff stopped, because something about him was so familiar, and yet he was certain he’d never met him before…

The boy’s eyes flashed silver, but his human face stayed impeccable. He climbed to his feet and dusted off his trousers before walking away. His shape became fuzzy after a few steps, and then he was gone.

Dettlaff turned to look at Ivy, and she met his gaze steadily, hazel eyes curious and just a little wary.

“Who was that?” Dettlaff asked.

Ivy’s smile, when it appeared, looked like it had been waiting for a chance to do so.

“That was me.”

Dettlaff looked back to where the boy had vanished. His mind felt slow and stupid for a while, and then Ivy apparently took pity on him.

“I was born like that.” She kept looking at him closely, clearly curious about his reaction.

Dettlaff finally found his tongue. “But you’re not a man.”

Ivy chuckled at his confused expression. “I have never been a man. I’ve always been me.”

“Transforming your body to that extent is a major undertaking,” Dettlaff said as his composure gradually returned.

Ivy nodded and spread her hands. “As you see me now is how I’ve looked like for fifty years or so, no longer.”

Dettlaff looked at her properly, but it was still just Ivy. In the dream, she was less tired, but otherwise exactly as he remembered her from the waking world.

“That was what you wished to show me?” he asked.

Ivy’s smile was still in place. There was a note of relief to it.

“It’s not something I can just bring up in casual conversation. So many people would call me a freak, even among our own.”

Dettlaff knew it was true. He had known there were people who felt like they had been born into a wrong kind of body, just as he knew that the few brave who tried to change that were often scorned and ostracized.

Set against that background, Ivy’s choice looked almost reckless. They have known each other for two weeks, give or take.

“I chose to tell you because now you know something that could harm me,” Ivy said to break him out of his thoughts. She had clearly read Dettlaff’s body language with little effort.

Dettlaff felt something indignant well up inside himself.

“I’d never—” he begun, and Ivy waved her hand at him.

“I’m glad to hear that, but it was not the point.”

Dettlaff knew that, too.

Ivy motioned towards the path, which didn’t seem to go anywhere.

“Shall we?”

***

Regis woke up slowly. His dreams started to lose their shape and form, becoming vague and then slipping away into his subconscious. He was distantly aware of the warm body curled around himself, of hands holding him, and his in his head was just one feeling.

_ Safe. _

The bond was cradling him like a happy thought. It lingered even when he opened his eyes, and the world seemed almost manageable in the light of a new day. He drew in a breath and smelled the faint tang of blood from Geralt’s grievous wound, but there was a softer scent of sleep and that unidentified whiff he had been smelling on his mate for a while now. It had gotten more prominent while they had been apart.

“Mornin’.”

Geralt pressed a kiss into the back of Regis’ neck, and he smiled, pressing closer carefully, so Geralt would have time to stop him if he was hurting.

“More like good very late afternoon. How are you?” Regis asked when Geralt answered by tightening his arms and the bond swirled around them, making the aether ripple gently.

“Much better,” came the reply, spoken into his tangled hair. “I think my healing’s kicked in while I slept.”

Regis couldn’t sense any discomfort from Geralt, and when he probed deeper into the intangible, he was surprised to discover that Geralt’s spirit met him halfway. He had come to think of the aether as the one place where his mate wouldn’t be able to reach, but now he was there, too.

“You are becoming more like us,” Regis said. His eyes slipped closed as he held onto the aether and Geralt made no move to pull back.

“Is that what’s happening now?” Geralt asked. He sounded like he was half-asleep, all soft angles pressing against Regis.

“You’re able to reach the aether,” Regis murmured. “It has not happened before, but now I can feel your spirit.”

Geralt made a faint chuckle, and then he pressed another kiss to Regis’ neck, teeth scraping the skin and tongue slipping out to taste. Regis shuddered, back arching and a soft exhalation escaping him.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispered, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to say no. Not when Geralt was already  _ inside _ , his spirit filling the hollow cracks that had always been a part of him, through which cold wind always whistled through.

“You won’t.” Geralt’s voice was warm and Regis felt him smile wider. A hand skirted down Regis’ flank, pushing his shirt out of the way as fingers dipped into the hollow of his hip, stroking like they needed to remind their owner of the true shape of Regis.

Regis whined softly as Geralt’s hand dipped into his breeches, and then returned up to help him wriggle out of the thin shirt. His naked back pressed against Geralt’s chest, and while he could feel the jagged edges of the new wound, Geralt made no indication of being in pain. 

The hand returned, wrapping around his shaft that was rapidly filling with hot blood. Regis could feel how hard Geralt was, his cock pressing insistently against his ass. Rough fingers started to tease sounds out of him, and Regis buried his face into the pillow as he hung on and let Geralt set the pace. He seemed to need this, to have Regis squirming in his lap and taking whatever he thought to give.

“Please,” Regis ground out, when it was becoming too much. Geralt had pushed his own pants out of the way, and precum was beading where his cock moved slowly between his thighs. He reached for his bag and located the vial of oil, handing it to Geralt. 

The witcher pressed him on his front, and Regis obliged. His hips canted up, and when Geralt spread him open and  _ licked _ , he sobbed. The saliva had no chance to cool, and instead of fingers Regis felt tongue pressing into him. His claws almost tore through the bedsheets. An indecent moan welled up in his throat, and Regis tried to remember keep breathing. His cock was trapped under him, dragging against the mattress.

Geralt licked deeper, fingers digging into the muscle and a content hum coming when Regis pushed back. The vampire was breathing shallowly and his hips moved in rhythm with the tongue that fucked him.

Regis wanted Geralt to take him and lay claim to him. The thought came and went, dragged out from a deep place within himself. It bled over, and the aether quivered with pleasure as Geralt registered the plea.

“I’m gonna,” he whispered, breath ghosting over the slick skin. “Hang on a bit.”

Regis thought he managed a sound of assent, but then Geralt licked into him again, and it was too much; he tipped over gradually, cock pulsing with pleasure as he felt his seed leak out, making his stomach and the mattress sticky with it, and right then Geralt’s fingers pressed into him, aided by the saliva and oil.

Regis’ knew he was whispering words, face buried into the pillow, and he had no idea what he was saying, only that he had to make Geralt know how much he was loved, how much Regis needed him, and that nothing could ever hope to rip them apart.

Geralt slid into him while he was still coming, and pleasure zigzagged up Regis’ spine. The witcher was laying on top of him with his full weight, but instead of smothered, Regis felt incredibly safe there; Geralt anchored him with his demanding presence, so that his chattering brain was forced to go quiet. Distantly, Regis remembered when Geralt had pulled him into the meditative state.

“Shh,” Geralt hushed him. “Let me.”

Regis nodded, and then Geralt started to fuck him, and everything went silent. They rocked together. The bed creaked faintly, their breaths came in sync, and Regis registered he was hard all over again, because he felt Geralt’s desire as keenly as his own. His mate’s mind was alight with a wish to protect him, and even with their fundamental power imbalance, Regis could understand it.

Mates were supposed to take care of each other. The bond was built on mutual needs and wishes.

Regis had always been a person whose head was filled with thoughts and musings. It was tiring, and when Geralt made it all vanish, he was feeling almost untethered for a second. Then he slipped into the hazy state and drifted in the aether.

His disguise slipped at some point, and it made Geralt bite his neck, almost hard enough to break skin. Regis shuddered, and at the same time Geralt drove his cock ever deeper and hit the spot that made him see sparks. He gasped, and then couldn’t catch his breath at all when Geralt’s hips started to move with more urgency. The witcher tugged him on all fours, and wrapped a hand around him. His fingers teased the wet, slick skin, dragged over the prominent ridges, and then Regis came again, because he knew he was loved. He cried out, and Geralt muffled the sound with his hand, snapping his hips once, twice, and then whimpered as he finished, muscles shaking as he fought to keep his voice down.

They stumbled down in one sweaty, dirty mess. Hands reached for each other, and Regis ended up pressed into Geralt’s chest, head tucked under his chin. They waited there, and tried to catch their breath as both allowed reality to creep a bit closer. It happened gently, and Regis smiled weakly as he pressed his tongue to the steadily thumping pulse on Geralt’s neck. His skin tasted of sweat and other substances Regis didn’t have the presence of mind to name, but which his instincts told him whispered of sex, lust, and contentment.

“Love you,” Geralt muttered into Regis’ hair.

“I love you too,” Regis told him. It felt good to say the words like this, when neither was in acute danger. “No pain?”

“A little, but nothing I can’t manage.” Geralt brushed his hair out from his eyes. “I needed that.”

Regis drew back a bit, and Geralt’s lazy grin made him smile wider. It had been entirely too long since he’d last seen that expression.

“So did I.”

They slipped into silence again, until Geralt rolled onto his back and then made a face at the mess. Regis laughed. He slipped out of the bed and returned with a bucket of water and a washcloth. The clean up was conducted in a comfortable silence, as so many times before.

Regis had come to love this part of sex. He didn’t relish being dirty and sticky, but wiping away the evidence of pleasure was like experiencing it all over again. He’d lost count how many times he and Geralt had just fallen into bed again in the middle of this process, because touching each other was so much, and the bond made them crave each other.

“We should go get something to eat,” Geralt said with a yawn as he tugged his clothes on with a satisfied air a bit later.

Regis nodded. He glanced out. “I’ll mist away and come find you.”

Geralt smiled, and then pulled Regis against himself. They kissed slowly, Geralt’s hands messed up his hair again, and then Regis disappeared for a while.

He landed into a secluded alleyway a short distance from the New Port Inn, and then made his way back through the streets. The day was overcast and grey, but he couldn’t taste any snow in the air.

A brief note of irritation passed his mind as he walked; it was tiring to hide everything at all times. Regis knew it would never be safe for him to be open about his relationship with Geralt, but he couldn’t help entertaining the wish for a short moment. He imagined walking the streets holding hands, and how it would feel to make the world acknowledge their bond. 

At the heels came the familiar tired acknowledgement of how long he’d spent posturing as a human. The appearance itself didn’t take too much energy, but the older he got, the more he started to hope for a chance to let it go, even for a while. Spending every moment acutely aware of just how thin the ice he walked was always threatened to summon back an age-old depression.

Without thinking, Regis ran his fingers along the bone handle of the knife Geralt had given him. The material was smooth under his fingers, and it elicited something like a tactile memory deep inside his brain. Regis was almost certain he had never seen bone like this before, and yet it felt like his skin recognized it. Touching it comforted him, and he had caught himself doing so a lot lately; all the stress was getting to him.

Every time he felt the mental aches, Regis also remembered Ivy’s words about the community. He had no idea how to untangle the mess inside his head, because leaving Geralt behind was making him recoil; and yet, the mere possibility of what she had implied was growing roots inside his head and making the thought of saying no like something he would come to regret.

Then he shook his head as he came to the inn. He didn’t look forward to making the decision.

He barely made it inside, when the bond tugged him, and he halted. When Regis opened the door again, he saw Dettlaff walking towards him with Ivy. He smiled at them, and then frowned.

There was something different about them both.

Regis had no time to discern what made him feel off-kilter, when Dettlaff came to a stop next to him and the bond reached for him in greeting.

“Hello. You’re feeling better.” Dettlaff sounded relieved, and when Regis nodded and smiled, his answering expression was calmer than any Regis had seen to date.

Ivy gave him a smaller smile. They entered the inn together, and Geralt’s head turned as he sensed them. His expression turned wary when he locked eyes with Ivy, but Regis reached for him to show him there was no danger.

“May I join you?” Ivy asked. She directed her words to Geralt, who nodded after a short, stunned silence. After they were seated and the barkeep had brought them food and drink, Geralt turned his gaze from Regis to Dettlaff.

“Something’s different.” He was still frowning, and his face reminded Regis of trying to remember a word that was just at the tip of your tongue.

Regis nodded, and Dettlaff met his eyes. He was looking sheepish, of all things.

“This may sound unlikely,” he begun, exchanging a sideways glance with Ivy.

***

Almost half an hour later Regis leaned back and ran a hand down his face. Geralt’s fingers brushed against his thigh on the bench. The witcher was blinking and trying to digest the news with just as much incredulity as Regis.

Dettlaff crossed his arms on the table. There was a new sort of ease about him. It was as if he’d been walking around with his shoulders stiff up until now, and something had just snapped that tension.

“As I said, it must sound odd. I’m still having trouble processing it.”

Ivy smiled. “But the fact that Dettlaff walked the dreams with little difficulty is proof that I was right.” Her face was more open.

“So are you able to dream now?” Geralt asked Dettlaff. “What happened to the block?”

“It’s gone.” There was such relief hidden into the words. Regis’ heart ached for his brother. Had he known there was a slightest chance that Dettlaff was a dreamwalker, he would have done his utmost to help him.

He had not known. Regis knew  _ of _ dreamwalkers, but he had never knowingly met one.

“And Ivy is an anchor to you?” Regis asked. To his surprise, he sensed a trace of embarrassment from Dettlaff.

“Yes.”

“But what was the block?” Geralt asked again. He was having a lot more trouble accepting the news, Regis noticed.

Dettlaff looked awkward, but it was Ivy who spoke.

“That’s private.” Her tone wasn’t unkind, but it brooked no argument. She stared at Geralt for a while before relaxing and continuing: “I want to apologize.”

Geralt went stiff. Regis wanted to soothe him, but he refrained. Geralt needed his space, and Ivy had hurt him, despite her intentions.

Ivy held Geralt’s gaze, and by now Regis knew that showing her emotions was difficult for her. With a slow blink, she allowed the indifference to melt away, and sadness took its place.

“I am sorry for what I did. I know you’re aware of  _ why  _ I did it by now, but nonetheless I feel bad. I wanted to help Regis, but I was blinded by my mistrust for you.”

Geralt said nothing.

“Regis reminds me of my former mate,” Ivy went on, and now it was Regis’ turn to stare. Ivy gave him a dry, reassuring smile. “Not in any romantic capacity, mind you,. He is similar to Sinja because he, too, is intelligent and tenacious.”

Regis heard the quiver in Ivy’s voice when she spoke her mate’s name. He was dying to know what had happened to her. He didn’t have to wait long.

“Sinja… She left me,” Ivy whispered. “She severed our bond many years ago, after telling me she didn’t want me anymore.” She drew in a soft breath and her face closed off. Before Regis could reach for her, Dettlaff surprised him and Geralt both by laying a hand on top of hers. Regis stared them for a long while, until it clicked.

Dettlaff if anyone would know how Ivy was feeling. Regis could still recall the biting, tearing sorrow he’d felt echo through their bond when Sylvia Anna’s plans had been laid bare.

There was a long, dragging silence. Regis knew he’d have to explain some of this to Geralt later, because the witcher was looking at Dettlaff like he had grown a second head.

Finally Ivy gathered herself and pulled her hand away. She met Geralt’s eyes again.

“I swear I will never hurt you or Regis ever again. I don’t know how I can fix the damage I did, but I will try.”

Geralt nodded. He didn’t say anything. Regis felt the confusion mix with the pain, and he had to suppress a shiver of his own.

He still had no idea what to do with the information about the community.

Ivy blew out a breath and straightened. This time her hazel eyes found Regis. “There is something else we discovered while dreamwalking.”

“What is it?” Regis asked. For no tangible reason, he felt apprehensive just then.

Dettlaff licked his lips, glancing at Ivy.

“We found out something about the curse.”

Geralt leaned forward so quickly he almost toppled over his tankard.

“What?” he asked, and then looked around to see if anyone had noticed. “What? How?” he repeated in a quieter voice.

“I haven’t been able to dreamwalk for months, not since the nightmares begun, since I didn’t have an anchor,” Ivy said. “With Dettlaff, I was able to enter the dreamscape. I only intended to break his block to allow him to dream again, but once we’d done it, we both felt something trying to push us out.”

Dettlaff nodded. “It was...supremely uncomfortable. I don’t really remember what it feels like to dream, but I’m sure it shouldn’t have felt like that.”

“So we followed the trail,” Ivy said. “It was well-hidden, trickling through the dreams of everyone in Kaer Trolde. And it was old, older than anything I have ever felt. It felt like it was made of the aether itself.”

“But that’s impossible,” Regis muttered, mind caught in the horrifying implications. “The aether is private, and it doesn’t touch humans. It doesn’t resonate with them, unless—”

“Unless a higher vampire is tampering with it,” Ivy finished for him, her eyes pained. “And touching the aether in such a way isn’t something just anyone can do.”

“What does that mean?” Geralt growled. His hands were gripping the edge of the table, and his eyes were angry and worried. “Or is that just one more bit of vampire history I’m not allowed to know?”

Regis knew his mate didn’t mean to offend, he was just alarmed, and thankfully Ivy ignored the insult. She shook her head.

“Normally, yes. But now things are changing. The aether is what binds us vampires to this world. It’s the space between the real world and our spirits. The bond you share with Regis runs through the aether.”

Geralt turned to Regis. “Earlier, you said—” he begun with uncertainty, and Regis nodded.

“Your spirit is reaching for it. I didn’t know it could happen, even with the mutations.”

Ivy frowned. Her eyes closed, and then Regis felt her carefully reach out. When her probe met Geralt, her mouth fell open and her eyes opened.

“How?” she whispered. “How are  _ you  _ able to touch the aether?”

“You said you found out something about the curse,” Geralt shot back with a frown.

Ivy ignored him, turning to Regis. “Who is he? Why does he feel like one of us? It’s been changing since we first met, too.”

“Hey, I’m right here,” Geralt protested, but Dettlaff reached for him through the bond, and he relaxed a bit. His face was still unhappy and annoyed as he glared at Ivy.

Regis looked at his mate. “May I tell her? The short version,” he added when Geralt scowled harder.

“Whatever,” the witcher grunted. He crossed his arms. “I’m expecting some answers immediately after.”

Regis nodded, even when he could make no promises on behalf of Ivy, and turned back to her. “Geralt is unique even among witchers. He received several experimental mutagens when he was,  _ well, _ made.” Regis paused, considering. “When we found each other again, I begun to suspect he might have some vampiric genes, because I could feel him. The mating bond had taken root even before I was melted into a stain.”

Ivy’s eyes were growing wider. She turned to Geralt. “Do you know what mutagens those were?”

The witcher fidgeted, clearly uncomfortable. “I have no idea about the experimental ones, but the original set had some ingredients from an albino bruxa.”

Regis felt his own eyes boggle, and both Ivy and Dettlaff reacted exactly the same way.

“So that is why you didn’t bleed out,” Dettlaff whispered. He was looking at Geralt with a mixture of awe and understanding. The witcher was starting to look more and more embarrassed.

“Bruxae have an excellent control over their circulation,” Dettlaff added, cocking his head.

“Yeah, most poisons work pretty badly against them,” Geralt grunted.

“Anyway,” Regis continued before the conversation got sidetracked too badly. “While we were in Novigrad, we were looking into the disappearance of several young girls. We discovered a cavern where an evil magic almost killed Geralt, but affected me and Dettlaff much less.”

Ivy’s brows drew lower. Right then Geralt seemed to reach the end of his patience.

“I had earlier found out about a scientist who had tried to come up with a way to turn his son back into human after he was made witcher. The guy screwed up, and instead his son became much more powerful. I underwent the same process, but instead of a blank albumen as the base, we put Regis’ blood into it.”

He fell silent, slightly flushed, and then glared at Regis. “What? Your way was taking forever.”

Regis felt a strong urge to kiss his impatient witcher, but he merely suppressed a smile and sent a wave of fondness to him. Geralt’s lips twitched, but then he turned back towards Ivy.

“Happy?”

Ivy was staring, completely still. The silence tensed, and then she gave a hoarse laugh.

“Well. That creates almost as many questions as it answers, but it will do for now.” She cleared her throat and turned to look at Dettlaff. “We followed the trail, slipping from dream to dream.”

Dettlaff frowned, and his eyes grew unfocused as he reached for the memory.

“Finally we found a dream that was older than any of the previous ones. Entering it was difficult, because it was warded.”

“Only a dreamwalker can ward their dreams, and it’s usually not done,” Ivy put in. “But I have been dreamwalking for three hundred years. I know how to break most wards.”

She fell silent and bit her lip.

“Especially since I recognized this one.”

Regis leaned forward. He realized his mouth was hanging open, and he quickly snapped it shut. Ivy drew in a few deep breaths, blinking rapidly.

“It’s Sinja. She is here, somewhere.”

“But how is she able to bind aether to human dreams?” Regis demanded. The thought of a higher vampire being behind the curse made dread crawl up his spine. Geralt looked at him when the feeling bled over.

“I don’t know,” Ivy whispered. Her tone was completely emotionless, but her eyes betrayed how scared she was. Silence hovered, and something dark settled over them all.

“I can’t see how that could be her handiwork. But that means there is someone else behind all this. Someone powerful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this is hopefully not needed, but: transphobic comments will earn you a place on the Shit List.


	13. Tunnel Vision

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! Double update! \:D/
> 
> Beta by [Tsurai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsurai/pseuds/tsurai)

Geralt had just enough time to process the alarming statement made by Ivy, when the door of the New Port Inn banged open. Bright light and cold air rushed through the dim space, and it took him a second to recognize the iridescent feather bobbing on the brim of a big hat.

“Is the witcher here?” Marja Darling’s voice carried easily over the sudden silence. Every head had turned towards the pirate when she’d kicked open the door, and now they swiveled around to stare at him.

Geralt rose to his feet. There was a coil of tension in his belly as he met Marja’s eyes over the heads of the islanders.

“Oi,” the innkeep said, stepping between them before Marja had a chance to talk. “We don’t serve your kind here.”

“I’m not looking for food,” Marja said with a sneer.

“Aye, but you’re looking for a customer of mine,” the innkeep said and crossed his thick arms. Geralt blinked, and then he realized a lot of Skelligers were staring at the pirate with hostile glares as they followed the innkeep’s example.

“I need to talk to the witcher,” Marja repeated without a hint of fear. Her eyes met Geralt’s again. “Come outside for a bit, will you? You’re perfectly safe.”

She spun around and let the door creak closed again, plunging the main room into darkness.

Geralt sighed. He thanked his general paranoia for wearing his armor. As he started to buckle his sword belt, the innkeep stepped closer.

“Master, ye don’t need to go. We know you’ve been helping the queen.”

“Thanks,” Geralt said with a faint smile. “But I think I need to hear her out.”

The man scowled, but nodded. Regis stood up.

“What could it be?” His voice was confused and worried. 

After Geralt had recounted the events onboard of Arlene to him, the vampire had narrowed his eyes and let out a hiss of anger. That same heat was lurking just underneath his calm surface now.

“No idea,” Geralt shrugged. “But she didn’t seem to be looking for a fight.”

The approaching evening was clear and cold. Geralt drew in a lungful of the frigid air, and it cleared his head. Marja was standing right outside the inn, arms crossed and frowning furiously.

“Here I am,” Geralt said as he stepped closer and mirrored her pose. He knew he wasn’t in a fighting condition yet, but the captain didn’t need to know that. Regis stayed half a step back, but in Marja’s shoes Geralt would’ve been more worried about him; the barber-surgeon had such an ominous air about him he seemed much more dangerous than a witcher.

Marja looked at him for a while in silence, and then he surprised Geralt. Her posture slackened and she took off her hat.

“I must apologize.”

Geralt blinked. He was absolutely certain he had misheard, but Regis’ surprise through the bond confirmed what the pirate had said.

Marja’s eyes were hard. “I lied to you when we last met. I didn’t want to help you.” She drew in a breath. “But I think I may have to, since half of my crew threatened to resign if I didn’t.”

She fell silent, and then threw him a resentful grin. “Walma sends her regards.”

Geralt almost laughed, but bit back the sound at the last moment. He knew Marja would not appreciate his hysteria.

“Alright?” he said, trying to see where the pirate was going. “So what did you lie about?”

“I had the medallion of Kvasir in my possession,” Marja said. She put her hat back on, and its weight over her messy, black hair seemed to draw her spine back into its normal proud position. “But it was stolen from me, the very same morning we arrived to Kaer Trolde.”

Geralt frowned. “Why not tell me right away?”

Marja’s mouth twisted into an ugly grimace. For a while, she seemed to struggle with something, and then she spat on the ground.

“The thief seduced me. She used some kind of magic on me, and made me open the safe where I kept the locket.”

“Who was she?” Regis asked; he had clearly reached the end of his patience to stay quiet.

Marja Darling spread her hands and looked livid, mostly at herself.

“Fuck if I know. Some wench I found while I was walking the docks, I thought at the time. Only when I woke up the next morning with the safe open and the medallion missing, I realized she’d tricked me.”

Geralt felt a headache start to form. “What did she look like?”

“Light brown hair, small nose, blue eyes. Just like every other fucking girl in Kaer Trolde,” Marja growled. “But she wasn’t a normal skirt, witcher. I have elven blood in me, and I can usually tell when someone is using magic near me. I didn’t recognize the spell, I didn’t even feel it before it hit me.”

Regis frowned. “So why are you telling all this now?”

Marja rolled her eyes. “Because I have a mutiny in my hands, master. And because my finances have taken a considerable blow by losing that damned trinket, and thus being forced to stay in this forsaken island for weeks, while I try to locate the witch who robbed me.” There were bright red spots burning on her cheeks when she finished.

Geralt managed to think that too much was happening once again, when someone blew a horn; he whirled around, and his eyes widened.

A full retinue in clan An Craite colors was riding towards the inn, Cerys leading the way. Geralt felt a cold touch inside his chest when he saw each one of them was armed.

The queen of Skellige came to a stop right next to them, and her guards spread around them. Geralt counted fifteen men, but he was more surprised to see the seneschal and Leah too.

Seeing Oddleifr sent a stab of hatred through him, and it was a massive effort to drag his attention to Cerys instead of drawing his steel sword and going for the man’s throat.

Cerys didn’t dismount, and it felt like a bad sign. Geralt met her eyes in what he hoped was a calm way.

“So, you’re back on your feet.” Cerys’ voice wasn’t as friendly as it had been, but her face held a trace of relief. “I was worried when Leah informed me you had departed yesterday morning.”

Geralt bowed his head. “I’m sorry. I had something to take care of.”

“When you could hardly stand?” Cerys asked with a raised eyebrow. Geralt opened his mouth to answer, but then the queen’s eyes moved over his shoulder and cold anger overtook her face.

“You.” Cerys’ voice was tight.

Geralt turned, and saw that Marja Darling had gone very pale. Her hand was resting on the pommel of her sword.

Cerys finally unmounted. The queen stalked closer to Marja, who stood her ground. Geralt could smell her anxiety, sour and unpleasant.

“You were warned, pirate,” Cerys said in a deathly quiet voice. “You were given one chance to stay out of the business of Skellige.”

“And so I have. Your grace,” Marja Darling answered. Her fingers twitched where they rested, but otherwise she was stock-still.

“And yet here you are, conversing with the witcher who I hired to break the curse that is holding Skellige,” Cerys continued as if she hadn’t heard Marja’s words. “The last time you graced us with your presence, your actions hurt someone dear to me.”

“That wasn’t on me!” Marja exclaimed. She seemed to realize what she’d done only when the guards dismounted and reached for their swords. She paled. “And I’m not here to meddle this time, I have business only with the witcher.”

Cerys’ expression was colder than any Geralt had seen. She turned to stare at him instead.

“Why are you working together with a pirate, Geralt?” Cerys asked. Her voice was even, but Geralt saw something extremely Crach in her just then.

“I’m trying to break the curse,” Geralt said. “Captain Darling gave us passage and I happened to know she has something that Jarl Sága needs. She has promised her help in exchange of that.”

He knew it was a mistake the moment the words left his mouth. The silence that followed was so tense Geralt’s fingers itched for his sword.

“What else is there?” Cerys asked. The last traces of friendliness had faded. “Who else are you working with?”

Geralt gaped. “No one! I’m trying to help you.”

Cerys’ eyes narrowed. “And yet you have dealings of which you didn’t deign to inform me, on top of you sneaking out from the keep and breaking the runestone of Kaer Trolde.” She took a step closer, and sunlight caught the iron crown on her red hair. “You are a guest here, yet you elect to act like a maverick who is beholden to no one.”

Geralt heard the unhappy murmurs from the guards and the people who were gathering to watch the scene. His neck was feeling hot.

“I’m trying to do my work!” he said, spreading his hands. “I’m a witcher. I have no interest in your squabbles, I just want to complete the job and go home.”

“You had a lot of interest in our so-called squabbles when it suited your own agenda,” Cerys spat out. “You helped me, and I’m grateful for that, but did you ever wonder how Skellige fared after you sailed in with emperor Emhyr and called the Wild Hunt to our shores? Did you spare a thought to how we might rebuild, when a new Conjunction occurred and we suddenly had more ice giants roaming the wilds than in a thousand years?”

Her nostrils had gone white and her hands were balled into fists, but everything in Cerys spoke of a queen; she pinned him down with her furious eyes, and Geralt felt hot shame crash through him.

He had not thought about it. He’d just left, happy that Ciri was safe. He’d barely thanked Cerys and Hjalmar for their invaluable help. 

Cerys read him like an open book.

“Witcher neutrality seems to sell cheap,” she sneered, before catching herself and momentarily looking like she regretted her words. 

Anger flared up, hot and resentful. He knew Cerys had the right of it, and had taken an immense risk by asking his help in solving the curse, but the accumulated stress overcame him just then. Her words sounded too much like those of Emhyr back in Novigrad.

“Much like the famed islander bravery, huh?” he said, his mouth forming the words and pushing them out without damage control. “Or how would you rate your seneschal’s performance against the vampires?”

He knew it was a low blow. It was a bitter, stupid thing to say, even before his sensible brain finally got his mouth under control and pointed out he was still surrounded by fifteen armed warriors and several villagers.

Cerys went white with anger. She crept closer until they were standing toe to toe. Geralt forced himself to meet her eyes, even when his insides were turning into lead with shame.

“You have one day to leave Skellige.” Cerys dropped the words into the cold air one by one. She looked at him like he was something despicable.

“You have lost your welcome here.”

***

Regis was frozen.

He watched Queen Cerys turn heel and wave a hand at the guards, who mounted their horses. The retinue started to leave, and at the same time the door of the inn opened. Dettlaff stepped out, with Ivy following close behind.

“Regis, what is happening?” Dettlaff asked. His voice was alarmed, and Regis knew he’d felt the shock and anger just as keenly as he had.

He opened his mouth to answer, when a wordless cry made him turn. He saw Ivy staring at the retinue, her face slack with shock and hands shaking.

When Regis looked, he saw Leah had stopped her horse, and was staring right back at Ivy. Her eyes were enormous, and there was a grimace on her face.

“Sinja,” Ivy whispered.

For a few seconds Regis didn’t understand. He thought Leah would kick her mount into gallop and leave. Then she blew out a harsh breath and dismounted, throwing the reins to a passing villager, and Regis’ mind connected the dots. The ground felt like it tilted under him.

Dettlaff had placed a cautious hold of Ivy’s shoulder, because it seemed like she would faint any second. Regis saw Geralt’s eyes flicker between Ivy and Leah, and his confused alarm mirrored Regis’ own.

When Leah came to a stop a few steps away, Ivy drew in a soft gasp. Her disguise flickered, only for a fraction of a second, but that told Regis how undone she was.

When he looked at Leah, the woman met his eyes briefly and then looked at Ivy. Her expression was caught halfway between irritation and anxiety.

“Hello, Ivy,” she whispered.

 

Leah directed them all to an empty townhouse where the village elders met when they needed to hold moots. She unlocked the door with a big skeleton key and waved them all inside. She never betrayed any aggression, but something was making the hair at Regis’ neck stand up. It could have been just the way Ivy was looking at Leah; her expression was one Regis knew he himself had most likely worn on the bridge to the keep, when he had seen Geralt bleeding out in Dettlaff’s arms.

“Explain,” Dettlaff said once the door closed and the room was plunged into dimness.

Regis was surprised to hear his brother take charge like that, but then he looked at him properly. Dettlaff was still holding on to Ivy, and she wasn’t voicing any protests about that.

Something had definitely changed between them when they had dreamwalked.

Lead sighed and shrugged off her hood. Her strawberry blond hair spilled free, and Regis saw a flash of something almost angry pass over her features. It vanished, and then she looked just like the woman they had met in the keep a couple of weeks before.

“My real name is Sinja Mac Uileagóid,” she said without any preamble. “I am of Gharasham.”

Regis froze, and he felt Dettlaff do so as well.

Nothing about Leah— _ no, Sinja,  _ Regis corrected himself—had registered as a higher vampire to him. There had been no distinct herbal aroma to hide her scent, no pointed teeth, absolutely nothing.

Sinja met their stares calmly. “You young ones have much to learn when it comes to disguising ourselves.” She turned to look at Regis. “I knew what you were the second you stepped foot into the keep.”

“What? He is what?” came a faint voice behind Geralt, Ivy, and Dettlaff. Regis realized with an unpleasant jolt that Marja Darling had followed them into the townhouse. Geralt turned to her, and Regis felt anxiety well up inside his mate. Geralt’s mind was one big jumble of distress.

“A vampire,” Sinja said in a clear voice. She cast a contemptuous look at Marja Darling. “I will wipe her memory once we’re done here.”

“What?” Marja repeated. She broke free of her stupor a moment later and drew her sword. Sinja looked amused, and Geralt surged forward to wrap his hand around Marja’s wrist.

“Calm down!” the witcher growled. “She’s not an enemy.”

“You don’t know that,” Ivy said in a faint, colorless voice. She kept staring at Sinja, who didn’t spare her even a glance.

“If she can’t calm down, I’ll make her sleep,” Sinja said to no one, clearly referring to Marja.

“Put the sword away,” Geralt hissed to the pirate captain. “We have to talk to her.”

“What the fuck,” Marja growled. “You’re a witcher, and you’re cavorting around with monsters?” Her angry, disbelieving eyes flicked from Sinja to Regis. “You’re— Regis is—” she seemed to lose the rest of her sentence when it finally sunk in she’d had one of the so-called monsters aboard Arlene, as well.

“Yes,” Regis said with a solemn nod. “Please calm down. You’re safe.”

Marja glared at him, but she finally lowered her weapon. She wrenched her arm free from Geralt’s grip and backed away from them all.

Sinja ignored her. She turned to look at Ivy, whose hands were still shaking.

“How are you?” she asked, voice turning a bit softer.

Ivy’s eyes widened with anger. “You left me,” she spat. “How do you think I am?”

Sinja’s face briefly contorted with sadness. “There’s much you don’t know.”

“Yes, because I am the young and irresponsible one,” Ivy said. She shrugged Dettlaff’s hand off and crossed her arms. At a first glance it looked defiant, but Regis saw how hard she was trying to maintain even a veneer of control. He briefly tried to imagine how he’d feel in her stead, standing face to face with a mate who had elected to sever their bond; he recoiled from the thought.

Sinja sighed and straightened up. “I will explain later, if you can bear to listen. We have more important things to talk about.”

She turned to Geralt. “You made a big mistake out there, witcher. Queen Cerys holds her seneschal in high regard, as you must have surmised by her reaction.”

“The seneschal threatened my mate,” Geralt growled, and Sinja nodded impatiently.

“I am not going to ask why a human has forged a mating bond with a higher vampire, but I must know what in all hells possessed you to cause such a scene? You are a  _ persona non grata _ in Skellige come morrow, and the curse is still unbroken.”

Regis felt how deep the words dug, but Geralt showed none of it. He kept looking at Sinja with a furious scowl.

“Why is a higher vampire acting as an advisor to the queen of Skellige?”

Sinja gestured towards the keep. “After your battle with the Hunt and the Conjunction that almost happened, the runestones of the islands were corrupted. Some more, some less, and the one in the keep seemed to be the one most affected. They accumulate energy, and when that reaches a breaking point, the nightmares come. I wanted to see the runestone for myself.”

“Why?” Geralt asked.

Sinja opened her mouth, but a scornful laughter from Ivy made all of them turn to look at her.

“Why not?” she said in a sardonic voice. “Nothing should stand in the way of knowledge, isn’t that right, Sinja?”

Sinja was silent for a moment, and Regis got the feeling she was thinking hard. Then she exhaled softly.

“I wanted to see what kind of magic is at work here. I think the curse was caused by the Conjunction.”

Geralt’s mouth fell open. Regis caught a flash of a fang before he snapped it closed. Sinja was suddenly frowning as she looked at Geralt, who ignored her curious gaze.

“What the hell do you mean?” the witcher asked.

“Think about it,” Sinja said. “The Conjunction draws worlds that are normally apart closer together. Realities begin to bleed over and mix. I can’t recognize the magic, and neither could the hierophant or the useless bunch of sorcerers the emperor sent us. Ergo, it must be something new.”

Regis had to admit Sinja’s theory made sense. He felt a grudging admiration for her deductive skills, and wondered briefly whether he could have arrived to the same conclusion, had he not been so preoccupied with worry over his mate.

Sinja went on: “I haven’t been able to locate the place where the curse is emanating, but I’m closing in. I think it’s somewhere in Undvik, because the seat of the Skellige elder is also located there. It’s too much of a coincidence.”

“Where is the elder?” Regis blurted out. Sinja turned her sharp eyes on him.

“I don’t know,” she said quietly. “I have been here for over a year, and his influence waned during that time, until it disappeared completely a few months ago.”

“That must have been a bit before the nightmares started,” Geralt muttered, but Regis’ eyes were drawn back to Ivy. She was hunched over, and it looked like she would crumble any second.

“A year?” she whispered. Regis wanted to go and hug her, then.

Dettlaff hesitated a moment, and then put his hand back on her shoulder. It looked like he wanted to let her know she wasn’t alone. Sinja sighed again, but didn’t acknowledge Ivy in any other way.

“The curse of losses is making people aware of what they cannot lose. My suspicion is that the person behind this is trying to gain momentum for their primary goal by drawing forth so much mental pain.”

“Is that possible?” Regis asked.

Sinja spread her hands and looked apologetic. “As I said, the magic is something new. I’m basing this on what I think is probable. Pain like that is somehow reaching the aether and causing ripples. When there are enough of those, bigger waves build.”

“Hang on,” Geralt said, stepping forward. “Ivy said something about the aether earlier.”

Regis nodded. He frowned and looked at Sinja.

“Ivy and Dettlaff dreamwalked, and they found your dream.”

For a second, Sinja’s face drained of all emotion. Then her eyes grew wide and she turned to Ivy and Dettlaff.

“That’s incredibly dangerous!” she hissed to Ivy. “What if you got lost? What if the nightmares got you? You can’t dreamwalk without an anchor!”

“I have an anchor,” Ivy said through her teeth. Her pain seemed to vanish as anger took its place.

Sinja’s eyes moved to Dettlaff. For a while nothing happened, and then Dettlaff stiffened and Sinja’s mouth opened. Regis knew his brother had been probed.

“You,” Sinja murmured. “Can’t be. I would have noticed.”

Ivy flashed her a contemptuous glare. “I have an anchor,” she repeated. Dettlaff squeezed her shoulder, and she turned to look at him. Dettlaff shook his head minutely, and Ivy’s lips formed a tiny smile that disappeared as soon as Regis saw it.

His curiosity grew. What on earth had happened in the dream?

“You didn’t answer the question,” Geralt said with a hint of irritation. Sinja’s head shot up, and she glared at him.

“My dream is there to gather clues. I left it drifting so I could see what it can snatch up.”

“Why ward it then?” Ivy challenged. “Hard to filter through human dreams if you block everything out.”

Sinja bared her teeth. “You have no right to go poking around my dreams,” she hissed.

“Alright, hold the fuck up now,” Marja put in as she seemed to reach the end of her patience. “All this talk about dreams and vampires and the curse, am I to believe there is a vampire behind it all? Someone rotten you folks have been cahooting around with?”

Regis almost missed it. Sinja’s pupils shrunk into tiny pin pricks and her eyes narrowed. Then the expression was gone, and Regis questioned whether he had really seen anything. Sinja regarded Marja with an almost bored expression.

“That is hardly any of your concern. I recommend you keep well away from this, seeing as you haven’t managed to safeguard even your own ship.”

Marja sputtered. “What?” she croaked. “What does that mean?”

Sinja gave her a pitying glare. “You lost the medallion of Kvasir, did you not?”

A short silence followed, and then Marja stepped forward and Geralt moved to block her path. The captain was livid, color rising high on her cheeks and nostrils flaring.

“You stole it,” she whispered. “You put a spell on me!”

“I did no such thing,” Sinja said dismissively. “I am just aware of everything that is going on in the village and the harbor, as befits my role as the queen’s advisor.”

Marja tried to step around Geralt, who refused to let her pass.

“Leave it be, Marja,” the witcher muttered. “That damn bauble is as good as gone now.”

“There you are wrong.” 

Regis was starting to dislike Sinja’s haughty demeanor when she talked to Marja. It reminded him of so many other higher vampires and their complete lack of respect for humans.

“I know exactly where the medallion is.” Sinja brushed lint off her skirt and pinned her steady gaze on Geralt. “Jarl Sága has it.”

Geralt stepped forward, eyes hard.

“Why did she send me to look for it then, huh?” His voice was steady and strong, but Regis could feel everything roiling just under the surface. And to think that just that morning he had dared to think the worst was maybe over.

Sinja gave him a thin smile. “She doesn’t want to break the curse. Her plan is to wait until the smallfolk are sufficiently scared and angry at the state of things, and then incite rebellion against the queen. She knew right away that the White Wolf was the only person capable of getting to the bottom of the matter, so she sent you on a wild goose chase that would inevitably end with your association with the infamous pirate Marja Darling getting revealed to the queen.”

Geralt mutely opened his mouth, and then closed it again. Regis felt that same reluctant admiration go through him. Understanding followed at its heels.

“You’re not just an advisor,” he said in a low tone. “You’re the queen’s spymaster.”

Sinja met his eyes with a thin smile and inclined her head.

“I have many ways in which I am able to be useful to the queen,” she said. “And if my own goals happen to align with most of hers, why not play along their little games? It gave me a unique position to investigate the curse. And you have to admit, it’s amusing to watch the workings of a human court, as fleeting as their worries and squabbles are.”

Dettlaff shook his head with a faint expression of disgust, and Regis felt his dislike for Sinja intensify. Before his brother got a chance to voice that, Regis spoke.

“So why is the queen so angry that Geralt has been working with captain Darling?”

Geralt glanced at him, and Regis felt his gratitude. The same question had clearly been bothering him as well. Sinja looked up and exhaled.

“About eight months ago, there was an attempt on Queen Cerys’ life,” she begun. “A cursed artifact was smuggled into the keep, and it remained undetected long enough for the hex to activate. It opened a portal and summoned a demon.”

A shudder went through them all, and Regis saw Geralt grimace.

“What happened? What sort of a demon was it?”

“Some variety of a hym even the hierophant couldn’t name,” Sinja explained. “It didn’t feed on guilt, but on sanity. It attacked the queen while we were in the middle of a meeting with the jarls, and trapped her. Before anyone could approach, the seneschal jumped in and wrestled the queen away from the demon, shouting that he’d take her place.”

A deafening silence followed. Sinja broke it with a whisper. “Seneschal Oddleifr was one of the best warriors the isles have ever seen, but the demon broke him before the hierophant could banish it. He has not been able to fight after that.”

“Why does Cerys keep him around?” Geralt asked. He seemed to shove his anger at Oddleifr away for a moment, and Regis felt horrified, reluctant pity echo through the witcher.

Sinja’s mouth turned downwards. “She loves him. They have been in love since they were very young, and the queen gave him the position of the seneschal so he might one day step up and marry her.” She met Geralt’s eye. “But a man who can’t fight is no man in Skellige. The queen of the isles cannot marry a man whose mind is broken.”

Regis wasn’t able to let go of his hatred for Oddleifr, but he had to acknowledge the grief he felt upon hearing his story. He knew Geralt felt exactly the same.

To Regis’ surprise, it was Dettlaff who broke the silence.

“That still doesn’t answer the question why the queen banished the witcher for working with Captain Darling.”

Sinja nodded. “I was getting to that. A thorough investigation to the cursed sword’s origin was conducted, myself leading it. It turned out the sword in question had been brought to Kaer Trolde by none other than—”

“Lies!” Marja exclaimed in a hoarse voice. Her eyes were wide with anger and fear. “It was not me!”

“You still deny you had nothing to do with delivering the cursed sword into the keep?” Sinja asked in a derisive tone. Marja bared her teeth.

“I did deliver it, and I told you as much when you locked me up and pulled out a few toenails,” she said, voice shaking. Nausea crawled up Regis’ throat at the implication. 

“But I did not bring that sword to Skellige. I bought it at the inn, from a merchant who seemed real glad to sell it cheap.”

“Ah, yes, this mysterious merchant who just happened to sell cursed swords,” Sinja sighed, rolling her eyes. 

Marja tried to step forward, and once again Geralt blocked her way. She shoved the witcher, who just glared at her and shook his head.

“It’s the truth,” the pirate said. “He was a man of fifty, gaunt and dressed all in black. Pale and friendly. Wore an eyepatch.”

Sinja cast a glance at Regis, as if to say ‘not this again.’

“Did the guy say anything?” Geralt asked. Marja shrugged angrily, the tip of her unsheathed sword drawing an ellipsis into the air.

“Nothing of note. Lamented how his wares were not appreciated on this godforsaken island,” Marja said. “He was almost out of money at that point, said he’d had to pay for his lodgings already by giving up some of his wares.”

Regis froze in the spot right as he felt Geralt’s eyes find him. Suddenly the knife Geralt had gifted him felt like it weighed a tonne.

He had almost forgotten its existence. Its light weight didn’t register where it hung, and since Regis didn’t really  _ need  _ a knife, he hadn’t used it. He’d brushed his fingers along the smooth, dark bone handle when he had been feeling lonely, and tracing the engraved herbs had elicited that curious brush of comfort every single time. The knife belonged to him. He knew it in his bones.

Sinja didn’t look like she cared to listen to more of Marja’s story. She adjusted her hooded cloak and looked them all over.

“I need to return to the keep, but we will need to visit Undvik.”

“We?” Geralt echoed. “In case you forgot, I’ll lose my damn head if I’m still here by tomorrow morning.”

Sinja glared at him. “Do you want to solve this or not?”

Geralt bristled. “Of course I do. But you seemed to be having a good go of it on your own, so why would you need us?”

“Because I trust Queen Cerys,” Sinja said. When Geralt raised his eyebrows in confusion, she offered him a small smile. “She trusted in your ability to break the curse. And since you destroyed the runestone at the keep, the person behind this all has likely taken note of you. If nothing else, you could help draw them out.”

Geralt heaved a sigh and rubbed his eyes. “Fine. But there’s still the small detail that I’ve lost my welcome here. Getting passage to Undvik could prove difficult.”

“I can help with that,” Marja said. All of them turned to stare at her in surprise, and she glowered at them.

“This is getting a little personal. I want to prove I wasn’t behind that cursed sword, and it seems it might have something to do with all this. So I’ll take you to Undvik on Arlene.”

“It could be dangerous,” Regis said softly. Marja’s eyes snapped to him, and Regis knew the tentative trust they had formed while sailing to Skellige had been irreparably damaged by the revelation of his true identity.

The captain snorted. “I’ll give my crew the option to fuck off. The rest can come with. It’s the same deal we have every time we set out to do something risky.”

Regis turned to look at Geralt. The witcher met his eyes, and after a while he nodded.

“Thanks, Marja. We’ll accept.”

“Good. Not like you have any other fucking alternative. We’ll leave at midnight.”

Marja finally sheathed her sword. She then took off her hat to brush her mane of black hair back. She turned heel and walked out, and Regis knew all of them heard her swear under her breath.

“Vampires. Fucking  _ vampires _ . Sam’s gonna kill me.”

When the door flung closed, Sinja put her hood back on. “As I said, I need to go to the keep, but I will meet you in the harbor later. From what I gathered, Captain Darling intends to sail sooner rather than later.”

Geralt nodded. His eyes followed Sinja as she walked to the door. She stopped there and turned around.

“Ivy.”

Ivy’s shoulders climbed up. She didn’t turn towards Sinja.

“Please don’t come with us.”

With that, Sinja left. The silence that followed was so deep Regis could hear all of their heartbeats, counting out the time they had left.

***

Geralt knew the news had spread by the time he and Regis reached the New Port Inn again. Villagers, who had earlier given him smiles, were now looking at him like he was something stuck under the heel of their boot. He tried to ignore the whispers, but his mood was damp and listless by the time he unlocked his room at the inn to gather his stuff.

Skellige had always been the one place where people didn’t sneer and spit at him by default. Now even the innkeep had given him an ugly look before muttering that he wasn’t welcome to stay another night.

Regis materialized into the room with a soft sound, and Geralt went to him. They pressed close, and Geralt tried to isolate the profound feeling of hurt and anxiety that had taken root inside him. It felt like a weed that thrived on the rotten soil the curse had forged inside him, further polluting him until feeling any sort of optimism felt like a distant dream.

“I feel like shit,” Geralt whispered and buried his face into Regis’ hair. Admitting it felt like a cowardly thing to do, but the words just slipped out.

Regis brushed his lips against his cheek.

“I know, love.” He hugged Geralt tighter.

When they finally drew apart, Geralt started to pack his things. There wasn’t a lot. Regis peered out of the window. Geralt noticed he was absentmindedly running his fingers along the bone handle of the knife.

“Do you think the knife was made by the same merchant?” Geralt asked. Regis turned to look at him and nodded right away.

“It’s too great a coincidence.”

“Are you sure you wanna keep it?”

Regis nodded again. His fingers rested on the handle almost protectively.

“There is definitely some magic in it, but it’s not malevolent.”

“What do you mean?” Geralt asked. He remembered the odd feeling when he’d seen the knife at the smithy in Kaer Trolde.

Regis looked him straight in the eye and smiled. “It feels...comforting. Like it belongs to me.”

Geralt answered Regis’ smile. His heart lurched, because seeing Regis smile like that, just a bit shy and so achingly familiar, reminded him how much he loved the vampire.

They hadn’t discussed the community yet, but time was running short.

 

Walma met Geralt with a relieved shout and wrapped him into a tight hug. Geralt gave a sad sort of laugh as he hugged her back. She then pulled back and surprised Regis by hugging him, too. When she drew back, she didn’t let him go immediately.

“ _ So _ ,” she said with a narrow look. “Not entirely human, eh?”

Regis went stiff, but Walma whacked him over the head with the palm of her hand.

“Cut it out, master. You’re good in my books.”

“I take it Marja told you all?” Geralt asked in a weary voice.

Walma snorted and finally let the startled vampire go. “More like kicked everything she could reach and cursed like a sailor. Then she told us we’re sailing to Undvik on a suicide mission, and that anyone not tired with life needs to hightail it as far away from Skellige as possible and become an honest member of the society, because this is what we get when our karma catches up on us.” She pulled a contemplative look. “Or something along those lines. It was much more colorful when she said it.”

Regis gave a hoarse laugh, but stayed otherwise silent. Walma’s eyes moved over to Dettlaff and Ivy, who were standing behind them and looking around with apprehension.

“These your friends?” she asked.

Geralt nodded. “Dettlaff and Ivy. They’re coming with us to help.”

Walma caught both of the vampires by surprise by sticking out her hand. Ivy shook hers with a tiny smile, and Dettlaff followed her example after some initial hesitation.

They were interrupted by a familiar, tall elf. Usamea shot Geralt a murderous glare, and then gave him a brief hug.

“You’re nothing but trouble, witcher. After we get back to the Continent, I’m done.”

“Done?” Geralt asked.

Usamea nodded. “Aye. I’ve had enough of this. Time I had some solid ground under my feet again.”

“But you’re coming to Undvik?” Geralt asked, not understanding anything.

Usamea nodded again and gave him a grin. “Everyone knows Marja is completely useless without me. We’ll have our swan song, and then she can spend the trip back home lamenting how I’m leaving her in the deepest of shits.”

“I would appreciate if you held your tongue, Sam,” Marja Darling called out to them as she stepped out from her cabin. She rubbed a hand down her face and took a swig from her hip flask before tossing it to Walma. “How many are leaving?”

“None,” Usamea said with a shrug.

Marja frowned. “You told them we’re likely to die, right? Painful death, vampires, all that?”

The tall Aen Seidhe shrugged again. “‘Course. You know what a bunch of idiots you hired, captain.”

Marja muttered something under her breath but left them there, ambling to the helm where the dark-skinned pirate was waiting with a map and a compass. She gave Geralt a cheery wave when their eyes met.

Geralt settled into the mess with his companions as the crew of Arlene started to run around to get the ship into a sailing condition. Guilt was still roiling around his chest, and he had no idea how he could possibly apologize to Cerys. There was also the question of the him being unwelcome to the islands come morning, and if he was caught while on Undvik, he didn’t know how he’d pull himself out of that.

He turned to look at Ivy, mostly to take his thoughts out from useless misery for a moment.

“How are you holding up?” he asked.

The vampire met his eyes and grimaced.

“It’s a shock,” she said quietly. “I haven’t heard a whisper of Sinja in a very long while. Hearing she has been here for a year hurts.”

Dettlaff made an unhappy sound. “I don’t trust her.”

“You didn’t trust me either, in the beginning,” Ivy pointed out with a faint laugh, but then sobered. “But you’re right. She is hiding something.”

Regis took Ivy’s hand, and she gave him a small smile.

“We’ll solve this,” Regis told her.

“Hopefully,” Ivy said. “I’m feeling very...uneasy. I don’t know why.”

Geralt leaned closer and dropped his voice almost to a whisper. “Is there any way for us to ascertain Sinja is on our side?”

The three vampires stared at him. Geralt felt a pleased brush from Dettlaff and fond exasperation from Regis. Then the latter shrugged.

“I don’t know. My guess is she is much older than any of us, since she is able to conceal even her scent and teeth.” He turned to look at Ivy, who nodded.

“She never told me how old she is, but I always got the feeling that she might have been here for over a millenia.”

Geralt blinked. He had known higher vampires lived long, but that long?

“How is that possible?” he asked.

Ivy shook her head. “I don’t know. Six or seven hundred human years is not unusual for one of us to reach, but she has always been different, somehow.”

Geralt blew out a breath. “But still. How can we know she’s not leading us into a trap?”

Ivy looked sad, then. “She was never malicious. All sharp edges and unchecked ambition, but never, ever evil. She had a thirst for knowledge, any and all of it, but she was especially interested in our original culture.”

“Do you mean before the Conjunction of the Spheres?” Regis asked. His eyes were growing curious, and the sight made Geralt amused, despite everything.

“Yes,” Ivy said. “She is the only person I know who has met most of the elders. As you know, they don’t usually take kindly upon us intruding into their lairs. Sinja has even conversed with the Beauclair elder.”

Regis drew in a breath and Dettlaff’s eyes widened.

“You’re gonna have to explain that to me,” Geralt said.

Regis looked at Ivy, who waved her hand dismissively.

“There is no point in keeping secrets from your mate, Regis. I should have seen it right away, or trusted your judgement. You may as well tell him.”

Geralt’s lips pulled into a genuine smile, and Ivy’s eyes grew a little softer as she answered in kind. Regis took Geralt’s hand and gave it a squeeze.

“The elders are mostly recluses. To my knowledge, they are the only beings that came into this world during the Conjunction who still live. They hold dominion over their own areas, and all of us owe them our allegiance.”

Geralt nodded. This he had known, as gathered from bits and pieces Regis had let slip.

Regis cleared his throat. “Had you not decided to retrieve Sylvia Anna, we would have been forced to visit the Beauclair elder to draw Dettlaff out.” He shot an apologetic glance at the black-haired vampire, who shook his head.

“You had no choice. I don’t begrudge you for trying to curb the violence I caused.”

Ivy was looking between Regis and Dettlaff with apprehension, but the latter turned to her.

“I’ll tell you the story later.”

Ivy nodded slowly, and Geralt was surprised to see her fall silent.

Regis sighed. “The elder of Toussaint is more volatile than the rest. He despises guests. If Sinja has truly managed to have a conversation with him, she is a person of considerable influence.”

“Is she Gharasham?” Dettlaff asked Ivy. She nodded.

“Yes. You haven’t seen her true face, but as far as I remember, she looks a lot like Regis. Her eyes are even the same color.”

“Anyway, is there a way for us to investigate her? Could you two dreamwalk again?” Geralt asked again.

Ivy grimaced. “In theory, yes.” When she saw all three of them looking at her, her shoulders slumped.

“There have been two nights without nightmares. I’m afraid that if we do, we’ll get lost even with an anchor.”

Geralt frowned. He still didn’t understand dreamwalking all too much, but the look of sheer unease on Ivy’s and Dettlaff’s faces told him enough.

“Dettlaff especially can’t risk it,” Ivy went on. “We just broke the blockade, and his mind will need time to heal. If he’s subjected to the curse while dreamwalking, he might not come back.”

“Come back? What do you mean?” Regis asked with wide eyes.

“If you get lost, you die.” Ivy’s words were just a whisper. “A body cannot live indefinitely without the spirit.”

Geralt felt an old fear creep along the bond, and when he turned to Regis, he saw his mate was looking the other way, completely stiff. Before he could reach for him, Ivy took his hand.

“Dettlaff told me you know what I’m talking about. You were pushed so deep when the sorcerer melted you that your spirit almost did slip away.”

Regis’ face betrayed how undone he was.

“I forgot who I was,” he said in a flat voice. Geralt felt how deep the fear had dug; Regis had made a passing mention about his time before Dettlaff had brought him back, but this emphasized it. Geralt tried to send a brush of comfort to Regis, who turned to him and managed a small smile. Before he managed anything else, Ivy frowned.

“Something is not right.”

She stood up, and then gasped. Dettlaff was by her side in an instant. Ivy’s fingers dug into his forearm.

“It’s my children,” she said, eyes going wide and alarmed.

She turned and ran out of the mess, and Geralt led the rest of them after her. He felt anxiety rush up again, because he had liked Ivy’s kids, and the thought of something bad happening to them made him nauseous. Outside, the sun was had sunk below the horizon, and the air was growing even colder.

They were met with the sound of hooves. Ivy uttered a low cry, and then she was running down the gangplank. Geralt saw a horse galloping towards the ship. When it came closer, he saw it was carrying Ivy’s kids, Aaron and Gina. He, Regis, and Dettlaff all followed her, and stood back as the kids all but stumbled down from the exhausted horse and into her arms.

“What is it?” Ivy demanded as her hands reached for them, fear making her voice tight.

Gina burst into hysterical tears and wrapped her arms around Ivy’s waist, chest heaving with the force of her sobs. Aaron hovered, until Ivy pulled him into a hug too.

“Where is Rowan?” Ivy asked. Her voice was climbing towards panic.

“They were taken away,” Aaron rasped, and then he started crying as well. “We were gathering herbs, all three of us, and I turned my back for one minute, I swear it wasn’t more, and there was someone—” his voice broke as his panic crested, and Ivy held him tighter.

Gina’s face was red with panic. “They were there, and then we felt someone go, and then they were gone and—we couldn’t find them!”

Geralt didn’t register Regis moving, but suddenly he was kneeling by the family and pulled Gina into a hug before she tore Ivy’s clothes without noticing. The girl wrapped her arms around Regis’ neck and sobbed, hair tangled and heart pumping frantically. 

“Who was it?” Ivy asked. She was crying too, but didn’t seem to notice.

Aaron drew in a breath, but couldn’t stop the tears from falling. “I don’t know. One of—” his voice dropped so low even Geralt had trouble hearing. “One of our kind, I think. But no one I have ever met before.”

“When did this happen?” Regis asked gently. He was combing his fingers through Gina’s hair, still on his knees in the snow.

“Yesterday evening,” Gina whispered in a hoarse, terrified voice. “We spent the whole night looking for them, and then didn’t know what to  _ do-ho-hoo— _ ” she broke down again, and Ivy wound her hand into her hair, too.

“It’s not your fault,” she said. “It’s not your fault. I know you would never let them get lost or hurt on purpose.”

“I was supposed to look after them both,” Aaron said. He finally pulled back with a hollow look of guilt on his face. “And I failed, and now Roo’s missing.”

Ivy forced the boy to meet her eyes. “Stop that this instant,” she growled. “We will find them.”

“Could this have something to do with the curse?” Regis asked in a quiet voice. He didn’t direct his words to anyone in particular.

Ivy closed her eyes. “I don’t want to believe it, but something tells me it is so.” Geralt didn’t like how exhausted her tone was. Everyone was worn thin, but he knew how it felt to fear for the safety of your child, even if that child wasn’t related to you by blood.

“Do you need to stay back with the kids?” Geralt asked. Ivy looked uncomfortable. Her face was pale and glistening with tears.

“I don’t know,” she finally admitted. “I’d feel better if we didn’t separate from each other now, but I don’t want to bring my children to Undvik.”

“We could look for Rowan—” Dettlaff begun, but Ivy shook her head.

“You won’t find them without me. And if you think I’m leaving this to you, you’re out of your mind.” She grimaced apologetically when she realized what she’d said, but Dettlaff only nodded.

Geralt understood Ivy’s vehement need to join them on the trip; as if he could have stayed behind when Ciri had been in trouble.

“What will you do to find Rowan?” Regis asked as he stood up. He took Gina’s hand easily, and the girl pressed closer. She tried to wipe the tears away.

“I may have to dreamwalk after all,” Ivy whispered. “Bonds with children who are not biologically related to me aren’t strong enough to be felt across distances. I can’t feel Rowan at all, so they’ve definitely been taken away.”

Geralt wasn’t fooled by the detached tone Ivy was using. Just underneath the surface she was cracking, worry and terror gnawing at her composure like acid.

“It’s too dangerous,” Dettlaff said.

“Yes, but they are my child,” Ivy agreed. She met Dettlaff’s eyes, and Geralt saw Aaron look at him with a faint frown. The boy had spoken so little when Geralt had been present, but now something in him reminded Geralt of Ciri; he was looking at Dettlaff with a familiar stubborn and daring expression.

Gina looked up at Dettlaff and then tugged at his sleeve with her free hand.

“Are you a friend now?” she asked. 

Dettlaff looked surprised, but then gave her a small smile.

“I am.”


	14. Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much for all the comments and kudos. <3
> 
> Beta by [Tsurai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsurai/pseuds/tsurai).

Marja Darling wasn’t thrilled when she saw Ivy sitting down in the mess with Gina and Aaron. The children passed for humans, but the pirate heaved a massive sigh.

“We are not a damned nursery,” she grumbled to Geralt. The feather on her hat bobbed.  


“Something’s happened,” Geralt told her. “She needs to keep her kids close. Leave them be, will you? They’re not gonna bother you.”

Marja muttered something under her breath, in a language Geralt didn’t understand. She walked back onto the deck with him and pulled out a pipe. After coaxing a small flame into it, she turned towards him.

“Where’s the monster lady who hates me? We’re good to go, just missing her.”

As if on cue, there were light footsteps on the gangplank. Sinja peered around, and when she caught Geralt’s eye, stepped closer. She ignored Captain Darling completely, and the pirate shot her an ugly glare.

“Are we ready?” Sinja asked in a low voice. 

“Yeah.” Tension made Geralt’s shoulders creep up, and he forced them down with a long exhale. “We can go.”

“Ivy did not stay behind.” Sinja glanced towards the mess door. “She should have done so.” Then she frowned. “Why are her children here?”

Geralt didn’t know whether Ivy wanted her former mate to know what had happened, so he only shrugged. Sinja turned her light green eyes to him. Her expression was distantly curious.

“I find your choice of allies interesting, to put it mildly, witcher.”

Geralt shrugged. “I’m an easy-going guy like that.” His head was aching from the adrenaline, and he really wasn’t in a mood to battle wits with a millenia-old vampire.

Sinja ignored his quip. “I’ve encountered many witchers during my years, and none have showed even a preliminary readiness to accept that they share this world with beings that far surpass them in terms of intelligence and longevity. What makes you so different?”

“Fuck if I know,” Geralt said just as the mess door opened and Regis stepped out with Dettlaff. The sight of his mate Geralt relax, and Sinja took note.

“Your bond is genuine. Peculiar,” she said as the two men came to them. Regis raised his eyebrows questioningly, and Sinja nodded her head to Geralt. The ship’s deck gave a lurch under their feet as it nudged away from the docks.

“I’m finding your bond with the witcher interesting, Regis. I’ve never encountered anything like it before.”

Regis acknowledged her point with a nod. “It is unique, as far as I’m aware. But you must forgive me; I won’t discuss it with you. It’s private.”

Sinja waved her hand with a smile. “I know. Mating bonds aren’t anyone else’s business.” There wasn’t anything obvious in her words, but Geralt still felt like it was a jibe meant to remind them to keep their noses out from her former bond with Ivy.

They stood in awkward silence. Darkness was falling, and the crew were working to get the ship moving. Geralt heard the confused question a dockmaster shouted as the ropes were tugged free, and he knew it was unheard of to set sail just as night was falling.

A thought occurred to him.

“Do you really think Jarl Sága is planning a coup?” he asked Sinja.

The vampire met his eyes. “I do. I’ve been working on gathering evidence, but the curse has been my priority.”

“What does she intend to do with the medallion?”

Geralt was surprised to see open apprehension on Sinja’s face for a moment.

“Humans misunderstand the medallion. It’s not just a shiny bauble. I suspect it was originally made by one of my kind, possibly by an elder, because it contains some very old magic. Some kind of a spirit is trapped inside.”

Regis was staring at Sinja. “How can you know that?”

“One of the elders I have met during my travels spoke of it,” she explained. “And not with any happiness. She refused to give me details, but from what I gathered, the spirit could very well be something that came into this world when the first Conjunction of the Spheres happened.”

“Could it originate from our home world?” Regis asked.

“I think it’s likely.” Sinja sighed. “When worn, the medallion of Kvasir makes the wearer able to see truth, yes, but I dread to think what would happen if it was kept on for longer periods of time. Or what would happen should the spirit escape.”

A silence fell.

Sinja shook herself away from the gloom.

“It was very unsettling to see the curse affects even our kind. The magic of higher vampires is so different from that of humans and elves.”

“How?” Geralt had no idea whether it was rude to ask, but he couldn’t care less just then.

“Every single one of us has it,” Sinja said. She glanced to Regis and Dettlaff, who nodded at once. “But it’s much more practical and instinctual. It’s tied to our skills and spirit. We can’t summon balls of fire or make pretty illusions, for instance.”

“So why do you want to break the curse?” Geralt asked.

Sinja smiled. “I’m fond of Skellige. I was born here. I haven’t associated with humans for centuries, but doing so now is reminding me that this is my world too. I want to take care of it.”

“Why did you not tell Ivy you were in Ard Skellig as well, then?” Regis asked tentatively. Sinja’s face grew hard, but under the anger was something vulnerable. For a long while, Geralt thought she wouldn’t answer.

“Ivy was the best thing to ever happen to me,” she finally said in a faint voice. “But I wasn’t a good influence on her. I saw that before she did, and then I left.”

It didn’t explain much, but Geralt saw there was genuine pain in Sinja’s eyes.

Regis was silent for a while. “May I ask, have you truly met most of the elders?” Geralt huffed a quiet laugh at the change of topic. He had known Regis wouldn’t be able to resist interrogating Sinja, and he found he didn’t really mind. It would take them a while to get to Undvik, and there really wasn’t much to do until then.

Sinja nodded, her eyes widening with something like delight as the sadness lifted. “I have indeed. They are...very different from the rest of us. But that you must know.”

Regis nodded. “I do. But I find myself intrigued by what they might have told you, about our home world for instance.”

“Shall we sit down?” Sinja asked, gesturing towards the low benches that lined the wall. “It’s quite a long story, and the part I know I can tell you takes up most of it.”

Geralt didn’t follow the three vampires. He saw Regis and even Dettlaff were curious to hear what Sinja had to say, but he found himself too restless to join them. He sent a reassuring brush to Regis before going back inside the mess. A cold wind was blowing harder and harder, and he, unlike the vampires, wasn’t immune to its bite.

His feet took him back into the low room, and there he stopped. Ivy was talking with Gina and Aaron in a low voice, but she lifted her gaze when Geralt closed the door.

“I can leave,” he offered, but Ivy shook her head.

“No need.”

Geralt made to sit down, but then he halted. Ivy watched him curiously as he considered his options. Then he made a decision.

“Can we talk? In private?” Geralt asked.

Ivy smiled. “We may talk here. Our way is a bit different from humans.”

Geralt spared a glance to the kids, and Ivy nodded. “We don’t really conceal difficult things from our children. It’s just not done.”

Aaron looked vaguely affronted at being counted among “children,” and Geralt chuckled. Teenagers really were the same, no matter the species.

“Well, if you’re sure. I wanted to talk about Sinja.”

Ivy’s smile fell, but she made no move to shoo the kids out. Gina moved to sit in front of Geralt and surprised him by handing him a ribbon.

“Can you braid my hair?”

Geralt opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Ivy sighed.

“Come, Gina, I’ll do it.”

“No, I want him to.” Gina’s pursed lips and the stubborn expression reminded Geralt so much of Ciri when she had been small that he plucked the ribbon out from the girl’s fingers.

“You’re not allowed to complain if I mess it up,” he said, ignoring Ivy’s surprised look. Even Aaron looked astonished.

“You won’t. Regis told me you have a daughter,” Gina said. She twisted her head to catch his eye. “He told me she loves you a lot.”

Geralt smiled. A warm and soft sensation swept through him.

“Ciri’s pretty awesome,” he said in a quiet voice. When he started to comb his fingers through the mess that was Gina’s hair, he saw Ivy was once again frowning furiously at him.

“Witchers are sterile,” she said hesitantly after a while.

Geralt nodded. “We’re not related. I helped his father years ago and invoked the Law of Surprise for my reward. Got a little girl out of it.”

Ivy’s frown took on an amused tint, but then she shook her head. “Once all of this is dealt with, I’d like to hear that story. What did you wish to talk about?”

“You’re gonna dreamwalk to find your lost kid, right?” Geralt asked. He saw little use to sugarcoat his words, and neither Gina nor Aaron came across as particularly skittish.

Ivy looked at him for a long while.

“I am.” Her voice was quiet and flat.

“Could we poke into Sinja’s dream at the same time? I’m having trouble trusting her.”

Ivy bit her lip. Geralt allowed her to think, and focused on trying to work something resembling a braid into Gina’s hair. The girl was fidgeting with the hem of her dress but otherwise sitting still.

“It’s...possible,” Ivy finally whispered. “But why would you want that?”

“Call it a witcher’s paranoia,” Geralt said. “I don’t feel good about walking into unknown like this.”

“It would require a lot of energy,” Ivy murmured to herself. She was clearly reluctant, and Geralt understood that; she had told them how risky dreamwalking was, but he couldn’t ignore the instinct that nudged at him, reminding how you should never trust enigmatic people. He groped around his head for anything he could use to convince her, and—

“I won’t hold Regis back if he wants to go to the community with you.”

His words were quiet, and Geralt violently pushed back the pain saying them elicited. Ivy’s eyes went wide with shock, and Gina turned her head so fast the half-ready braid slipped out of Geralt’s fingers.

Geralt waited for the pain to reach the same overwhelming, panicky levels as before, but nothing came. Instead of scrabbling, hollow horror, there was only a deep, dark acceptance inside of him. He couldn’t live with himself if he made Regis unhappy. If Regis wanted to live in a place where Geralt couldn’t follow, he really had to give the vampire that chance.

He’d let Regis choose, but Geralt had to find a way to drive the point home to his mate. Geralt wouldn’t hold him back.

“What?” Ivy whispered in a hoarse voice. 

“You heard me,” Geralt muttered, finally breaking eye contact. “I’ve thought about it, and I can’t make his decisions for him, but I promise to let him know I won’t try to prevent him from leaving.”

The pain came, but it also went. Geralt was almost certain he’d managed to prevent it from bleeding over to the bond. He’d bring this up later with Regis, once they would have time to talk and inevitably argue.

“I couldn’t ask this of you,” Ivy said. Geralt saw the familiar regret flare up, and he shook his head.

“I’m still pissed off at you, but you had a point. He has to know there’s a place for him where he wouldn’t have to hide everything all the time.”

Ivy blinked and looked down. Her lips were quivering.

“Are all humans like you?” Aaron suddenly spoke up. The boy stared at Geralt with a puzzled expression.

“Dunno,” Geralt said. He cleared his throat. “He’s too important for me to make him miserable in the long run.”

The boy cocked his head, but before he could ask anything else, Ivy looked up with a heavy sigh.

“I’ll take you with me. I would have done even without…” She trailed off, and Geralt nodded. Then she straightened up and drew in a breath.

“We can’t let the others know. Regis will no doubt protest the plan, as will Dettlaff.”

“Can you use him as an anchor if he doesn’t know what we’re doing?” Geralt asked. He tried to remember everything Ivy had told them earlier.

Ivy gave him a crooked smile. “He’ll know right away when I form the bond, but he won’t sever it. He’ll stay awake, and it’ll be our best bet of getting out of the dreamscape if anything goes awry.”

“What could possibly go wrong,” Geralt said to himself, and Ivy gave a weak laugh.

 

Geralt turned around, looking at Ivy’s cabin and noticing immediately what Ivy had meant about lucid dreaming being different from normal dreaming. The walls and the surrounding forest seemed to quiver, with iridescence rippling through everything when he focused his gaze. He looked up at the sky, and his mouth fell open.

There were so many constellations, and he found he couldn’t name any of them. Some stars seemed to be much closer than was usual, too.

“This is my dream,” a voice told him. When Geralt turned to look, Ivy was standing right next to him. “I put you into sleep and pulled you here. Since you’re not a dreamwalker, you can’t go anywhere I don’t go.”

“Right,” Geralt said. “Why are we at your house?”

“Because this is the last place I saw Rowan,” Ivy explained as she turned and walked towards the house. “This is the last place where I felt their spirit. I must try to find it in the aether, because if they were taken against their will, there will be traces.”

Geralt made a noncommittal sound. Ivy could have told him she intended to call a unicorn for help, and he couldn’t have been able to tell whether she was lying. He settled to following the vampire, remembering how they had huddled into Walma’s quarters, after sneaking away from the mess and making sure Regis and Dettlaff were still engrossed in their discussion with Sinja. The last thing Geralt remembered before he’d gone under was Walma’s anxious glare.

Ivy spent a long while just standing and walking around in silence. Geralt let her be, and he looked up at the stars again. It was breathtaking. The longer he looked, the closer the stars seemed to come, and pale lights were flickering between the black void that held them.

“Don’t float up.” Ivy’s voice made him jump. Geralt turned his gaze back towards her, and was surprised to see that everything had sort of lost color. Only the sky was as vibrant as ever.

Ivy smiled. “My dreams are very immersive, and bringing a normal dreamer here is always a small hazard.”

“I’d float up?” Geralt asked, suddenly very glad gravity was a thing in Ivy’s dream. For some reason the idea of drifting up into the peculiar night sky was uncanny, sending a shiver down his spine.”

“Could be,” Ivy said. “But we’re done here. I found a trace.”

“That’s good,” Geralt nodded. “Do you know where to go?”

“I do.” Ivy was silent for a moment, sparing a glance to the sky herself. “Sinja is taking us to Undvik, and Rowan’s spirit is somewhere there as well. Normally I wouldn’t be able to tell, but somehow they have left me small fragments of themself to find.”

Geralt grimaced at Ivy’s quietly horrified tone. “That doesn’t sound good?”

“It’s not. I have to find them all as we go.” Ivy closed her eyes for a second, and grief made her shiver. Then she looked at Geralt. “Shall we?”

It was weird. There was no other way to describe dreamwalking. Geralt felt like he was walking through shifting, quivering landscapes, following Ivy closely, and sometimes catching glimpses of other dreamers as they slipped from dream to dream. It made him think of a massive network of shimmering bubbles, all overlapping each other a bit.

“How do you dreamwalk in daytime?” he asked at some point. He’d been mostly quiet, watching Ivy feel her way forward, and occasionally stopping to call back one of the fragments she’d mentioned earlier. They floated to her like fireflies, and followed her until she had a halo of them around her head.

Ivy stopped and laughed. “Do you not daydream, witcher?”

Geralt frowned, and Ivy continued walking. They were passing through what looked like a fairground, only the people were just smudges against the washed out scenery.

“People dream all the time. Stepping into daytime dreams is harder, but it’s possible.” She left it at that, and Geralt knew he wouldn’t understand it any better if he asked more questions.

After what felt like a long time, Ivy came to a stop. They were standing in the shallow water of a shore. Looming rockfaces rose from the sand at the sand, and the surf around their feet was cold and restless. Something about the place looked distantly familiar.

“We’re here,” Ivy said. She cocked her head and looked like she was listening intently. “But I can’t find the next trace.”

She took a few steps, and then halted and went stiff. Geralt’s hand twitched towards his swords, but there was nothing to grasp; his weapons had not followed him to the dreamscape.

“Something’s not right,” Ivy gasped, and the wave at her feet exploded.

Black water rushed over Geralt as the solid surface he’d been standing on disappeared. He sunk into icy cold water, and as he tried to kick back to the surface, he heard a distant scream.

His head broke the surface of the water. He was so cold his breath was coming in gasps. Geralt turned his head stiffly, trying to keep it above the increasingly angry waves, and saw that the shoreline was much further away than he’d thought. Then he looked the other way, and his heart seemed to stop.

Something enormous was coming towards him. He felt it more than he saw it, gliding under the water and approaching fast. Something about the idea of an unseen sea monster made him almost panic, but with massive effort Geralt reined the fear in.

A figure in the horizon caught his eye. For a second he didn’t recognize it, but then it clicked. The elven tower of Undvik, where he’d sent Ciri to battle the White Frost. The sky was distorting around the tower, and dread gripped him hard. He had just enough time to think that it was somehow very fitting, and then he felt something wrap around his ankle and drag him into underwater.

***

The world burst forward in an explosion of color and feeling. Geralt shot up with a shout and then his stomach made a violent turn. He almost fell out of the bed and vomited on the floor, feeling like his insides were trying to crawl out. His head was throbbing and everything seemed violently real, too much to process.

When he could only heave up some acid, the world settled back into its place. Geralt blinked the tears from his eyes, had just enough time to take in the general clamor around him, and then someone seized him by his shirt. He was slammed against the wall, still half-lying on the bed. Regis’ face came into view, and it took a while for Geralt to process that he had never seen the vampire so angry.

“What were you thinking?” Regis whispered. His voice was shaking and his eyes had gone completely black. Geralt felt his shirt tear, and Regis wasn’t showing any signs of letting him go.

“What on earth were you thinking, when you entered dreamscape when you  _ knew  _ the nightmares were very likely to come?”

“We had to know—” Geralt rasped, but Regis only slammed him against the wall harder. Someone was trying to pull him away, but the vampire didn’t pay them any mind.

“How many times will you act like that and put yourself in danger just because you think you have to do everything alone and without consulting others?” Regis snarled. “Did you spare a thought to how we felt when Dettlaff felt an anchor bond form out of nowhere, and we found you and Ivy both under?”

Geralt swallowed. He hadn’t had time to think every aspect of his plan through, and he was starting to see what a mistake that had been.

Regis blinked, and his eyes returned back to normal. It didn’t make him look any less livid.

“How do you think I felt when the nightmares came, and only Ivy came back? She told me she lost you in the dreamscape, after you convinced her to take you along?”

Regis’ voice broke at the last word, and before Geralt could say anything, he misted away from him. Walma, who had been trying to make Regis let Geralt go, gasped in surprise. Geralt registered Dettlaff, Ivy, and Usamea hovering by the door, but his focus snapped back to Regis.

The vampire had a hand over his mouth. He looked like he was the next one to puke.

“If you got lost, you would have died.” Regis’ words were muffled and hollow. Geralt scrambled up, but when he tried to go to Regis, the vampire shook his head.

“Pack is about  _ trust _ ,” Regis said to him, pinning him down with eyes that were suddenly looking shiny in the candlelight. “I didn’t want to think you don’t trust me, but you keep rushing into situations without sparing a thought to how it might affect your pack.”

“We had to find out where we’re going,” Geralt tried, but his voice was weak and hoarse. Regis’ eyes were disbelieving and angry.

“No, you did not. You don’t need to find the solution at any cost possible,” Regis said. “You’re not the only person who is affected by your actions.”

With that, Regis left. He brushed past Dettlaff and Ivy without sparing them a glance.

Geralt felt like his chest was caving in. His legs gave out, and he was distantly glad he landed on the bed and not on the mess he’d made on the floor.

After a long, agonizing silence, Walma spoke.

“Go get washed, witcher. I’ll clean this up.” Her voice was small and she sounded just as shocked as Geralt.

 

Geralt went through the motions of cleaning himself mechanically, not really paying attention to the cold water. His head was hurting, probably because of the nightmares, but mostly he focused on the blistering guilt.

Regis’ breath had hitched before he’d made it out of earshot. Geralt hoped Dettlaff and Ivy had gone to him. He was certain he was the last person Regis wanted to see right now. When he was done, he listened to the creaking of the ship around him, and tried to find the energy to dress up again. Piece by piece, he donned his armor, but the process took at least five times as long as normally.

He had fucked up. He should have trusted that Regis would see his point of view, and gone to him and Dettlaff before hurtling headlong into yet another stupid plan that ended up backfiring and almost killing him.

Geralt spent a second wondering how he’d managed to wake up from the nightmares, but discarded it. The only thing he could focus on was how worthless he felt. He’d thought he trusted Regis, and by extension the idea of a pack, but when put into the harsh light, Geralt had to admit he had been fooling himself.

He had trust issues for days, and the time spent on Skellige had dragged them all to the forefront of their minds. Geralt had always been headstrong, but in retrospect his actions had been exceptionally impulsive and precarious while in Skellige. He had all but run away from Holmstein at the first sign of trouble with Regis, and then continued straight into a battle he had known he had no hope of winning, coming out alive only by sheer dumb luck.

No wonder Regis was feeling at his wits’ end.

Geralt could feel Regis, muted but there, going through several iterations of rage that turned to dread and then sorrow. Every wave of the feelings crashed into him, but Geralt made no move to block it out. He knew he deserved to feel the backlash.

The door opened and shook him out of his moping. Dettlaff entered and gave him a tired smile.

“How’s Regis?” Geralt blurted out. Shame made his neck feel hot.

“He’ll need some time to calm down,” Dettlaff said honestly. He held the door open. “Come. Fresh air will do you good.”

Geralt followed the vampire to the deck. They were at the open sea, islands looming in the darkness. The sky was pitch black, but there was a very faint glimmer of paleness to the east. Morning was approaching.

Geralt leaned on the side and stared down into the black water. He was aware of Dettlaff standing by his side.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt finally said. He couldn’t look up. “I’m sorry we used you as an anchor. And that we didn’t tell you what we meant to do.”

Dettlaff made no sound, but he put his hand on Geralt’s arm. Geralt swallowed, fighting against the guilt threatening to crush his lungs.

“Regis is right. I haven’t been able to trust in this pack stuff, and I’ve behaved like a fucking idiot because of that. I promise I’ll try to do better in the future.”

Dettlaff’s hand squeezed, and with that came the first brush along the bond. Geralt wanted to break down when he realized he was feeling forgiveness.

“I don’t deserve—” he begun, but Dettlaff turned him around.

“You made a mistake, and you promised to not repeat it. What else can you do?” he asked with a frown. 

Geralt opened his mouth, but he couldn’t find the words. Dettlaff looked satisfied.

“I forgive you. What you did was… I don’t want to end up in that kind of a situation ever again, but I trust you know that.” He fell silent and finally let Geralt go. Geralt saw Dettlaff watch the approaching sunrise.

“Regis is hurting. Because of what you did, but also because he is feeling your pain at having been kept in the dark very keenly right now.” Dettlaff let the ship banister take his weight as he leaned on it heavily. “None of us have been doing well while we have been here, to be honest. It’s coming back to bite us now, when everything draws to a close.”

Geralt heard the truth in Dettlaff’s words. He didn’t have the energy to argue. He was hurting with the wish to go to Regis, but he didn’t dare. If the vampire pushed him away again, he might very well break down. He leaned back against the wooden railing and tried to piece his mind back into some working order.

The conversation he’d had with Ivy before embarking into the dreamscape floated back to him in the silence that followed. The thought of letting Regis go didn’t hurt any less now, but Geralt steeled himself. He had trouble trusting, but he’d start working on that now.

“I have a question you’re not gonna like,” he said to Dettlaff. The vampire turned to look at him, brows drawing low as he tried to sort through Geralt’s chaotic feelings bleeding over. Geralt drew in a breath.

“I can’t tell Regis he’s not allowed to go to the community, if he ends up wanting that.”

Dettlaff’s eyes widened with shock. He stepped closer to Geralt, but he was clearly lost for words just then. Geralt swallowed; his throat felt prickly.

“So I need to know: is there a way to break the mating bond?”

“No, Geralt,” Dettlaff breathed. His hands gripped Geralt’s shoulders hard. “You can’t think he’d want to—”

“I don’t know what he wants!” Geralt spoke over Dettlaff. The vampire gaped, struck mute by his outburst. Geralt exhaled and forced himself to let go of the tension.

“We haven’t had the time to talk, but I see how close he’s growing with Ivy and her kids. Hell, you’re growing close to her. If Regis wants to go, I can’t hold him back.”

“He would never choose that,” Dettlaff said. His voice was constricted.

“Maybe not now, in this fucked up situation,” Geralt agreed. “But I can’t live with myself if he comes to regret not going. With me, he has to hide everything he is, and it hurts him. If there’s a chance he could be happy in the community, where he wouldn’t have to pretend, he has to know that—that I want him to be happy.” He ran out of steam there, and slumped down. 

Dettlaff surprised him by pulling him into a hug, and after the shock passed, Geralt hugged him back. It was a little awkward.

“Was that alright? I’ve seen humans do it,” the vampire asked when he pulled back. He looked so honestly puzzled for a second that Geralt started to laugh.

“It was fine,” he said. The he sobered. “Is there a way?”

Dettlaff’s face turned dark, and his eyes narrowed. He looked miserable.

“I’m gonna find out somehow,” Geralt sighed when no answer came. “I’ll ask Ivy or Sinja. I have to know.”

“Yes,” Dettlaff whispered. He closed his eyes and drew in a breath. “It’s possible. It’s… you just decide. The same way you decided to be together.”

Geralt didn’t know whether he was shocked to hear it or not. Vampire dynamics still made very little sense to him.

“There’s no magic to it,” Dettlaff went on. He looked like he had to force the words out. “If you decide to give up the bond, it will slowly die away. It won’t be pleasant, or quick, but it’s very much possible.”

Geralt nodded. “Thanks.”

Dettlaff looked towards the sunrise. The sky had grown lighter as they had conversed, and Geralt could see Undvik in the distance. The tower was visible against the sky, just as ominous and looming as the last time he’d seen it. He was interrupted when the bond gave a faint, questioning pulse. It was coming from Regis, and Geralt knew Dettlaff felt it, too.

“I’ll go. Come find us when you’re ready.” Dettlaff gave his arm one last squeeze, and then he was walking away. The sound of his footsteps died away, and Geralt glanced at the tower again.

Regis’ steps were much quieter, but Geralt turned to him when he felt desperate hope reach for him. Regis came to a stop a foot away, but when Geralt opened his arms, he swayed into the witcher and they gripped each other hard.

“I’m so sorry,” Geralt said, speaking into Regis’ hair because the vampire had buried his face into his neck. His breath was coming ragged and shallow. Geralt tried to soothe him, but he wasn’t doing much better.

“I promise I won’t do that again. I promise. You were right, I haven’t been able to trust.”

Regis pulled back enough to look him in the eye.

“I’m sorry for slamming you into the wall,” he whispered. “I was so scared and lost control.”

“I probably deserved that,” Geralt said. Regis’ mouth twisted into a smile that was almost a grimace.

“This trip has done us no favors,” he said quietly. “I wish we had never come here.”

“Me too,” Geralt said. He couldn’t hold out any longer, and leaned in. When Regis didn’t push him away, Geralt kissed him, slow and deep. Regis sniffed when they parted.

“I know you had the best intentions in your mind when you and Ivy dreamwalked, but I meant what I said.” His voice was wavering a bit.

“I know,” Geralt said. The shame came back. “I promise I won’t do that again.” Then he fell silent, because he knew he needed to bring the community up now. They didn’t have a lot of time. Undvik was growing larger by the minute. Regis sensed his hesitation.

“Please tell me what you’re thinking,” he said. He pressed a kiss to the corner of Geralt’s mouth, and didn’t pull away.

“This is a bad time, but have you thought about the community?” He had to force the words to come. Regis gripped him harder when he understood the question. They breathed in silence for a while, both waiting for the initial desire to withdraw and avoid the topic to pass.

“I have,” Regis finally said very quietly. His hands were holding on to Geralt. “But I can’t make up my mind.”

Geralt felt Regis’ guilt go through the bond like a thunderclap; the vampire was burning up inside with it.

“I want you to be happy,” Geralt said. He looked Regis in the eye. “That’s all. So whatever you decide—”

He didn’t get to finish, because Regis made a constricted sound of distress and kissed him hard. His tongue slipped into Geralt’s mouth, and the witcher felt an odd wave of heat crash through them both. It was desperate and blistering hot, making their bond melt into a beam of light for a second. Regis pushed harder, hands cupping his jaw.

“You get to decide,” Geralt gasped when he finally pulled back. He was hard, and he would have given anything to drag Regis into some secluded corner and beg the vampire to fuck him.

Regis wasn’t faring much better. He barely stilled his hips, hands digging into Geralt’s armor at his sides.

“I  _ can’t _ decide,” he said, voice breaking again.

Geralt cupped his cheek. “You don’t have to do that now. I love you.”

Regis’ eyes were glistening as the sun started to give the world its colors back. His hair was open and floating in the harsh wind. 

Geralt knew, deep inside his bones, that he’d do anything to make Regis happy. Anything at all, no matter the cost. The certainty settled into him like a ghost, calming the desperate fear until he was able to breathe more easily than in weeks. Making that decision had been easier than he’d thought, but it still left him bleeding in silence.

“You hold my heart.” Regis’ voice was steady, despite the few tears that slipped out.

***

“I don’t like this.”

Regis turned to look at Dettlaff. He was standing on the shore, having elected to mist his way to the sand instead of occupying a place in one of the small boats. Arlene was anchored some distance away, and after very loud and rather impolite discussions, most of the crew had been convinced to stay put.

Geralt and Regis had done their best to explain how little they knew of what they were heading into. Regis had personally applied all his imagination to make the trip sound as horrible as possible, and it had worked for the most part. However, nothing had managed to convince Marja, Walma, or Usamea to stay at the ship.

Marja Darling had looked at Regis like the vampire was a particularly annoying and simple animal she wanted to kick. When Regis had finished his spiel, she had given him an ugly glare.

“Master, with all due respect: if you think I’m staying behind, you’re out of your goddamned mind.” With that, she had started to lower one of the rowboats into the sea. Usamea had given Regis a mocking grin and joined the captain. Only Walma had smiled gently. She had kept standing by Geralt’s side.

“I’m coming too,” the woman had said. When Geralt had started a new round of protests, she’d shaken her head.

“You won’t ask for help, but I have a feeling you’re gonna need it.”

Geralt had been scowling furiously, but Regis had felt a small spark of warmth ignite inside his mate at Walma’s words. 

When he, Dettlaff, and Ivy simply turned to mist, some of the crew members gasped and backed away. Regis had just enough time to hear Geralt reassure them, and then he was gliding towards the shore, just high enough to avoid the waves. He knew Ivy had made Aaron swear he’d look after Gina while they were gone, and not to follow them no matter what happened.

He had never been to Undvik before. The island had a more foreboding aura than Ard Skellig, its shores crafted many ages ago by storms and who knew what. The cliffs glared at them, all hard rock and severe greyness, and Regis felt an odd shiver go through him.

Ivy and Dettlaff were standing next to him in silence. Sinja, who needed to maintain her cover, was riding in one of the small boats, which bobbed closer over the waves.

“The seat of the elder is truly here?” Regis asked Ivy. She nodded, a bit hesitant.

“I think so, yes. They are a recluse, so their claim has always been very ephemeral.” She looked at Regis carefully, and he knew she was feeling at least as guilty about the dreamscape episode as Geralt.

Regis briefly wondered how his mate had found his way back through the nightmares, but he had to discard the thought. It only summoned the same overwhelming panic he’d felt during the long minutes when Geralt had been unresponsive.

When the rowboat finally hit the shore, Geralt clambered onto the snowy sand with the rest of their group. He looked around, but the elven tower looming over them drew his gaze.

“Feel anything?” he asked no one particular. Sinja nodded right away. There was a sharp look in her eyes.

“We’re in the right place.” 

Geralt looked at the tower again. “That’s Tor Gvalch’ca,” he said quietly. “The last Conjunction that nearly happened centered around it.”

Sinja nodded. “That would explain why the curse started on Undvik.”

“Are all elders located at places where we originally came into this world?” Dettlaff asked. He was still standing with Ivy, who glanced at him.

Sinja didn’t look at them, but Regis saw her frown.

“I think so. The Skellige elder at least believed that this was the location where he came through.”

Marja muttered something in a language Regis had to take a moment to recognize; it was a low form of an old Koviri language, one that was nowadays only spoken by the poorest people in Kovir and Poviss. Regis couldn’t make out what she said, but it was uttered with such vehemence the vampire suspected it was her native tongue. 

They started to walk, making their way along the shoreline until Geralt spotted a path he’d found when he had been searching for Cirilla. Regis remembered meeting the man called Folan, and he made an educated guess that story was part of the reason the witcher had directed them to this point; Marja had been reluctant to sail to a place where there was no way to moor her ship securely, but Geralt had insisted. Regis had known Geralt was worried about his status in the islands, and how it would reflect on the rest of them, should they be caught.

The climb took them most of the morning. The path was old and perilous, but even Marja and Walma managed themselves well. The third time Regis shifted into mist and flew forward to scout, neither so much as blinked an eye anymore.

They passed through some old caverns, and Regis was absolutely sure they’d run into monsters there; it was exactly the kind of place the more elusive post-Conjunction creatures favored. But there was nothing, and when they finally came back into daylight at the top of the cliffs, he decided that the peace and quiet worried him more.

Geralt was thinking the same thing. Regis had seen his mate turn his head around as they had crept through the dark tunnels. He had been here before, and he was clearly on guard, expecting something. When nothing came, unease settled into the bond, humming with concern.

“I don’t like this,” Geralt murmured to Regis when they took a small break. The rest of the group were sitting a small distance away.

Regis hesitated and then took Geralt’s hand. No one here was going to judge them, and he wanted to feel his mate’s fingers wrap around his.

“I noticed you were looking for something.”

Geralt scowled. “Those caverns used to be full of sirens. There were also several rock trolls the last time I was here. Where the hell have they all gone?”

Regis couldn’t give an answer, so he decided to stay quiet. He squeezed Geralt’s hand, and then kept his hold of it as they resumed walking. 

The last leg of their journey was short. It seemed like an ancient road, leading straight to the tower.

“Didn’t think I’d have to come here again,” Geralt muttered under his breath when they reached the shadow of Tor Gvalch’ca. Regis nodded in sympathy.

They started to climb the old stone steps, and Regis felt his unease skyrocket. Something was waiting for them, and it wasn’t pleased they were here.

“Do you feel it too?” he asked, not directing his words to anyone in particular.

Dettlaff nodded, and Ivy shuddered.

“It’s something old,” she said. Regis saw her take a small step closer to Dettlaff.

Sinja was frowning. “I don’t recognize this. It is not the curse, but it’s not the elder either.” She took the lead, and they ascended the rest of the steps in silence.

There was a round courtyard, set into the shadows of the arching structures. It was empty, and everything spoke of abandonment. Regis looked around as his unease deepened, still holding on to Geralt’s hand.

The witcher didn’t seem as bothered, but his face was set into a deep frown. When Regis followed his gaze, he saw a stone door set into the wall of the tower.

“Is that where—?” Regis asked, and Geralt nodded.

“Yeah. Avallac’h opened the portal there.”

“Looks closed now,” Marja said through her teeth. She had drawn her sword, and was peering around like she expected an attack any second.

“It’s closed,” Sinja muttered. She stepped closer, but then halted and turned around. Her eyes fell on to Ivy.

“Ivy, please. You must leave.” Regis was surprised to hear how sincere her voice sounded, when thus far she had mostly treated her former mate with impatience that verged on boredom.

Ivy bared her teeth.

“Why do you suddenly care so much if I stay or go?”

Sinja blinked rapidly and glanced over her shoulder at the closed, heavy stone door.

“I fear what will happen once the door opens.”

“Why would it open?” Geralt put in. He dropped Regis’ hand as he stepped towards Sinja. “It’s just a door. The tower’s been abandoned for centuries.”

Regis sensed something shift through the aether, then. He opened his mouth to shout a warning, but nothing happened. He was standing completely still, locked inside his own head.

Horror gripped him.

Sinja’s face broke into a pained grimace. “The elder is here. I can feel him. He won’t look upon us kindly.”

Ivy marched closer and jabbed a finger to Sinja’s chest. She looked furious. Regis saw Dettlaff stood unmoving as well, and he guessed the unknown power had frozen his brother as well. Regis tried to wrench free, shout, anything to get Geralt’s attention, but the witcher was now focusing intently upon Sinja and Ivy.

“You didn’t care,” Ivy snarled at Sinja. “You told me I wasn’t what you wanted. You broke our bond.” She drew in a shaky breath, eyes flashing white. “I loved you, and you cast me aside. There’s nothing you can say to convince me you actually care now.”

Sinja’s eyes were suddenly pleading, and Regis felt something draw closer. Someone was coming. He was thrashing madly against the power that bound him, but it was for nothing; the claim that had been absent had descended on them, and there was nothing Regis could do to break free.

“Ivy, you need to go, I tried to make you go earlier—” Sinja whispered. Then she went stiff as she saw Ivy was frozen in place, and slowly turned around.

At the corner of his eye, Regis saw the stone door ripple. Then a powerful wave of magic rocked his spirit as it opened, and Regis knew Sinja had been right about the seat of the elder. The door had been concealed exactly like the one he’d opened in Tesham Mutna, all those months ago.

Sinja’s face was very pale as she turned to face the door. Regis heard a low chitter, and his insides turned to ice; he should have known. He should have forced Marja, Usamea, and Walma to stay back, to convince Geralt to abandon everything.

He shouldn’t have trusted that Sinja was truly working to break the curse.

Regis had heard Orianna’s description of the Unseen Elder. She’d described him as gaunt and mutilated, with eyes that made you fear for your sanity. Regis tried to steel himself, but before he could do that, four protofleders skulked out of the door. They started to circle Geralt and the women, who only now noticed the vampires had been incapacitated.

“Regis!” Geralt hissed, and Regis was hurting because he could do nothing. The witcher turned to Sinja.

“You brought us into a trap,” he spat out.

Sinja whirled around. Her face was drawn tight with fear.

“No,” she whispered. “It’s not like that. No one will be harmed—”

The first protofleder leaped, and Geralt moved so fast Regis had trouble seeing it. The witcher knocked Walma off her feet, just as the vampire landed in a snarling heap and tried to immediately go for his throat. Geralt bared his teeth as he drove it back, but the other three were already advancing.

“Stop!” Sinja’s voice cracked with power right then, and Regis was shocked to see the fleders halt and turn their glowing eyes towards her.

No one should be able to command protofleders, apart from—

“You’re growing into your powers,” a slow, lisping voice said.

Sinja closed her eyes and for a second it looked like she was fighting back tears. Then she turned around.

Regis knew, at his core, that the person who stood at the door was the elder. He had a gaunt, hollow look to him, like something that had been infinitely prolonged until nothing of the original creature remained. He was stooped, leaning on a staff like an elderly human. Regis was surprised to see he was missing an eye.

The elder drew in a slow breath that rattled unpleasantly, and Regis felt his power wash through them all. Even Geralt seemed to feel it, but Regis was desperately thankful his mate was apparently still more human than vampire; the magic didn’t appear to affect him.

The elder lifted a hand with sharp nails and pushed his tangled, grey hair out from his face. His only eye was small and bright, and it moved from one person to another. He was clad in robes that hung on his emaciated frame like ragged sails from a shipwreck.

“And how it all comes together,” he whispered. He looked at each of them in turn. “A mother who was not meant to be. The one who gave up his humanity. And the miserable, orphaned ones looking for a way home.”

Sinja stepped closer. “They do not need to be harmed. No one needs to die.”

The elder leveled a glare at her, and Regis felt shock course through him when Sinja didn’t back down. She crossed her arms.

“Let the humans go. They have no business here.”

“No?” the elder said. There was something uncanny about his voice. It seeped through Regis’ skull and made him nauseous.

“But they are here by choice.”

“They did not know.” 

“It doesn’t matter.”

Regis watched numbly as the protofleders stalked closer, until all three women were pressed close together. They kept casting fearful glances at Geralt and Regis, but none of them dared to move.

Geralt took a step closer. “You’re the elder, right? We came here to break the curse of losses. We mean no harm.”

“No harm?” the elder echoed. His voice sounded like insects scuttling over dead leaves. “What does a human know about harm? Your lives are over before they even start, yet you are destroying this world nonetheless.”

Geralt’s face grew angry, and Regis prayed that he would keep calm.

“The curse is hurting people. We only want to break it, and then we’ll leave.”

“The only ones leaving are our people,” the elder said. Sinja’s shoulders crept up, but she stayed silent as the elder stalked ever closer to Geralt.

“You will not break the curse that I set in motion. After you and the Aen Elle opened the gates between worlds, I was able to keep that passage cracked open.” The elder gave a soft laugh, and Geralt shuddered. There was an apprehensive understanding dawning on his face.

“I was not strong enough to open the passage any wider, but I was able to call forth an old power from my home. The journey to this side twisted it into something else, but it served its purpose.”

“Your home?” Geralt asked. “I thought the curse was originating from an old god called Woden.”

The elder didn’t answer. He turned towards Sinja again.

“Well? Did you bring the child?”

There was a ripple in the aether. It came from Ivy, and it was made of pure hatred. Regis knew right away what had happened, and he didn’t feel anything but listless sorrow when Sinja walked away and a moment later returned with a sleeping Rowan.

“They will not be harmed,” Sinja whispered to Ivy desperately, but the elder took the child from her before she could do anything else.

Rowan woke up, as if from a spell, the moment the elder’s hands touched them. Their eyes opened wide with terror, and when they saw Ivy, a soft cry escaped.

“ _ Ati _ .”

_ Mother _ , Regis translated dully, at the back of his head.

The elder held Rowan tightly. “Come forth, Ivy Ainsworth,” he whispered.

Ivy gasped as the spell released her. For a second Regis feared she would just attack the elder, but then she walked closer on shaking legs, eyes fixed on Rowan.

“Don’t worry, Roo, it’ll be alright.” Her mouth formed the words, but no sounds came. Regis heard Rowan sniffle.

Ivy didn’t seem to bear come closer than a few meters to the elder. Regis understood, because even where he was frozen, he felt his presence slither and crawl over him. The aether bent to the will of the elder, and then wrapped itself around Regis like a living creature.

“Please, let my child go,” Ivy said. Her voice was faint, but her eyes were aflame.

“A mother who was not meant to be,” the elder repeated his earlier statement. His eyes swept over Ivy.

“You were not born to carry a child. No matter how hard you have tried to change yourself, this is the one thing you cannot achieve. So you took in the children you found, and treated them as your own.”

“I only wanted them to have a home,” Ivy whispered. Rowan was trying to reach for her, but the elder held on to them.

“When this child appeared in Holmstein, you took them in without a thought,” the elder said. His mouth stretched into a horrid smile, and Ivy visibly recoiled. “They were in the village because I had sent them there for you to find. I sent my own child to you, and you formed a bond with them.”

Ivy’s mouth fell open, but nothing came out. Rowan was struggling harder, and Regis hoped against all hope they had not heard or understood the elder’s words correctly. He had never entertained the thought that an elder might choose to have offspring.

“I have kept the passage open,” the elder went on. “The curse of losses, as the humans call it, has created enough ripples in the aether that when we unleash the last proper sacrifices, the portal will spring open.”

Another wave of sheer horror went through Regis. He watched Ivy’s eyes grow hard as flint as her true form came forth.

“I will never harm Rowan,” Ivy hissed. Her claws extended.

“You don’t need to!” Sinja finally rushed to her, careful to not step within the reach of Ivy’s claws. “You only need to sever the familial bond.”

She turned to stare at the elder, and now she was angry. “No one needs to be harmed. You promised me.”

“You promised you’d deliver her to me, and yet you chose to drive her away,” the elder hissed. Sinja took half a step back and her face twisted with pain. 

“You fell in love, my daughter, and then tried to hide your love away. But you should have understood that there is no place where my hand does not reach.”

“Daughter—” Ivy sputtered. Her eyes found Sinja’s who looked seconds away from crying. She nodded, once. 

The elder didn’t pay them any mind. “I promised to take you home.”

“But we were not supposed to kill anyone!” Sinja shrieked. She clung onto her human face, but Regis saw her claws extend a bit. “Just breaking the bonds is enough! It hurts enough! You saw what happened to the seneschal!”

Ivy was staring at Sinja like she had never seen her before. The elder suddenly waved his hand, and Regis gasped as he was able to move again. He was by Geralt’s side in a flash, and the witcher sent a rush of something fiery through the bond.

“You were the one behind that cursed sword,” Geralt said to the elder in a quiet and threatening voice. The elder vampire nodded.

“It was the first push. The seneschal loves the queen, and when the queen was dying, he sacrificed his sanity to save her. Something that strong breaking creates massive waves in the aether.” The elder turned his eye to Regis and a thin smile stretched his mouth. “Such a coincidence, that the knife I forged should find its way into the hands of one of us as things end. The bone in the handle came from our home.”

Geralt’s face grew furious. “You’ve been fucking with the people all this time, just so you can maybe open a portal and go home?”

The elder turned to look at him. “Three sacrifices,” he said. Then his eyes grew hard with interest. “I never imagined I’d see a human who is so close to us.”

“I’m a witcher,” Geralt growled.

“You are a human,” the elder said with another smile that made acid crawl up Regis’ throat. He didn’t like the glint in the vampire’s eye. 

“And you love a higher vampire.”

“So what?” Geralt asked. He held his sword in front of him, and Regis felt a jolt of adoration when he saw the tip wasn’t trembling at all.

“You will help us open the way,” the elder said.

“Like fuck I will,” Geralt spat.

The elder ignored him entirely, turning back to Ivy. “You will give up the child.”

“No.” Ivy’s voice was small and barely there, but somehow she was able to meet his eyes. “Never.”

The elder let Rowan go, and the child ran to Ivy. Their red hair was in a disarray, but Regis was able to tell they were otherwise unharmed. Ivy scooped them into her arms with a relieved sob.

“That child was never meant to be,” the elder said. He stepped closer, and Ivy looked like she would give anything to back away. The ancient vampire came to a stop  when they were almost toe to toe.

“That child will grow up violent, because I planted a seed of my own insanity into their brain. You will do them a service by giving them back to me, because that is the only way to rein in the destruction.”

Ivy turned to look at Rowan, who met her eyes while blinking away tears. The tense silence dragged on, and as Regis watched them, everything seemed to balance of a knife’s edge. Any moment now, something would break.


	15. Parting Of Ways

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second to last! (╯°□°)╯︵ ┻━┻
> 
> Beta by [Tsurai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsurai/pseuds/tsurai).

Ivy stared at Rowan for a long moment, and the child looked right back at her.

Then she was moving, and Geralt barely saw her as she flung Rowan as far as she could from the elder, before rushing at him with claws extended.

Rowan landed on their feet, skidding along the stone floor.

“No!” Sinja screamed.

Ivy stopped mid-lunge and collapsed. A gurgling scream tore through her and she spasmed. The elder looked at her coldly as she writhed at his feet. Then he looked up.

Rowan was standing behind them all. They were unharmed, watching Ivy with a scared expression and hands balled up into fists.

“You miscalculated, my daughter.” The elder released Ivy, whose chest heaved as she could breathe again. She didn’t attempt to get up, and Geralt saw her ears and eyes were bleeding.

“She would not give up a child she did not birth, even for you.”

Sinja shook her head mutely. Her eyes were darting between Ivy and Rowan. Ivy turned to her side with difficulty. Her eyes seeked out Rowan, and once she saw they were unharmed, she sighed faintly.

“I tried to protect you,” Sinja whispered. Ivy turned to glance at her.

“I loved you,” she muttered. She coughed up blood.

“I love you,” Sinja said. Her tears started to fall, then. “We could have been together again.”

Ivy didn’t answer. Her eyelids drooped, and Geralt heard how her heart struggled to keep beating.

The elder turned to Sinja. His one remaining eye was shining with feverish intent.

“You know what you promised.”

A violent shudder went through Sinja, but when she met the elder’s eyes, she was already pushing it down.

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” she breathed. “We were supposed to find a peaceful way to go home.”

“This world knows no peace,” the elder said coldly. “Humans, elves, dwarves, all kill each other heedlessly. This is no place for us.”

“It could have been.”

Geralt realized Regis had spoken only when the elder turned his eye to stare at him, and his mate shuddered. The gaze felt like something old and uncanny was lurking just underneath the surface, just like in the nightmare where he had been lost at sea.

“This world doesn’t want us,” the elder said. He reached a hand to his pocket and dug out a medallion. Geralt drew in a breath as he recognized the distinct shape.

“The medallion of Kvasir shows the truth, because that is what hurts the most,” the elder said, his voice growing quieter. “I’ve looked for a way to go home since we came here. Nothing worked, until the Aen Elle caused another, smaller Conjunction right where my seat lies. It was the first time in so many centuries when I was able to breathe in familiar air, if only for a fleeting moment.”

Geralt shook his head. “So then you decided to start killing people and driving them mad? You talk so much about how despicable humans are, but you’re no better.” 

He knew he was being reckless, but the tension was approaching breaking point. The unfamiliar magic was humming around them, and instinctually Geralt knew the curse and the waves it had caused were crashing against them. He didn’t know shit about the aether, but there was something fleeting pulling at him, and the feeling wasn’t pleasant.

“The second sacrifice,” the elder said. He turned to Sinja. “You promised.”

Sinja nodded. Her face crumbled.

Before Geralt could react, the ground under her feet opened into a pitch-black, heaving mass of  _ something _ . She shouted in fear, but as Geralt tried to run to her, Regis’ arms wrapped around him. When he looked at the vampire, his eyes were enormous and full of terror.

“That—” Regis gasped. He stared at the blackness. It was coiling around Sinja, who tried to struggle and flee, but in vain. “That is not of this world.”

Geralt was aware of Dettlaff just then, pulling both of them away. He was stiff, and pure horror was coursing through the bond.

“What is that?” Geralt asked, but his words were drowned into an eerie, piercing howl. The black coils solidified and then they wrapped around Sinja, who gave one last shriek and then fell silent. She was swallowed by the roiling, squirming blackness, and with a revolted jolt Geralt realized the thing was  _ alive. _

He heard a wail behind him, and when he turned around, he saw the protofleders were running. Marja, Usamea, and Walma were staring back at him, scared and confused, but Geralt connected the escaping vampires with the blind fear Regis and Dettlaff were feeling.

It was something they feared, because it was written deep into them. Geralt was suddenly certain none of them knew what the thing was, other than their blood and spirit screaming  _ danger, run  _ when they saw it.

He barely registered the last disgusting lurch the blackness made, because right then he knew the curse had activated. The feeling of being pulled away intensified, and Regis held on to him more tightly. Geralt stared at the elder, who was rolling the medallion between his bony fingers. He seemed to be losing more and more of his human disguise as magic started to crest around them. Wind was blowing from unnatural directions as the sky grew dark and clouds rolled in. In moments the tower was enveloped in a murky darkness, and something in it felt alive and wrong.

“Humans invented a god,” the elder said in a quiet voice that somehow resonated inside Geralt’s skull and made him want to dig it out with his fingers.

“They saw a bright light, heard the wailing of lost souls, and to explain the phenomenon, they gave the god the name Woden. They told the tale how he sacrificed his eye for wisdom, how he hung from the great tree for nine nights and nine days, all for knowledge.”

Regis took Geralt’s hand, and he hung on to it. The runewords in his silver swords flared up in response to the magic.

“But they didn’t know a god from a being far beyond their comprehension,” the elder said with a bitter smile. His limbs had extended, giving him a skeletal look, and his only eye had become a window to the blackest space Geralt had ever imagined. His mouth was full of jagged teeth, and nothing in his face resembled the old man any more, and still his voice slithered into Geralt’s head.

“I took the name. I took the wisdom, everything I could get. And it still wasn’t enough. And then chance, in its blind and unreachable ways, working through another being thrust into this forsaken world, happened to point me into the right direction.”

The elder let the medallion hang from his fingers. There was a crystal set into the middle of it, and a frantic flame was burning inside it. Geralt got caught staring at it, the mesmerizing flickers and sparks impossible to look away from even as the wind was howling so hard he was struggling to stay upright, and the horrifying shape of the elder loomed over them. There were ragged, torn wings sprouting from his back, and they flared as the elder spoke again.

“I have seen the truth. You fell in love with someone you could never understand. You bound yourself to a being that is so different from you the two of you barely walk the same earth.”

Regis’ hand was suddenly gone from his, and Geralt’s heart stopped.

The elder had seized Regis, and his claws were poised right over his throat.

“And now you will give up that love,” the elder whispered inside his head. “You will renounce him, and thus the third sacrifice will be made.”

Geralt stared at Regis, whose black, terrified eyes were staring right back at him, and he remembered.

He remembered Fen Carn, and how he’d felt something was off with the barber-surgeon, but couldn’t point his finger on what it was.

He remembered Regis kissing him for the first time, just before they reached Stygga.

He remembered a hundred other kisses, shared on the road, under the night sky, between sheets, furtively in dark corners, in broad daylight on board of Arlene—

He remembered how simple it was to love Regis, and how much he did.

The elder growled.

“I will give you taste what awaits you if you don’t,” he said. “He will die by my hand, and there will be nothing but nightmares left.”

The curse was swirling around them, rippling madly, and then it surged down. Geralt drew in a breath, heard Dettlaff and the women shout in pain and fear as their knees gave out, and he—

He felt nothing.

Geralt turned around, sword drawing a wide ark into the darkness. Dettlaff was staring at him, a frantic snarl on his face. Marja was clutching her head as sobs shook her. Walma was trying to keep standing, but her lips were moving and eyes staring somewhere far away.

Geralt turned back to the elder. Regis was struggling in his grip, eyes unfocused and horrified, his mask slipping away.

“Impossible,” the elder growled.

The next second the curse let the rest of them go. Regis blinked his eyes open and seemed to go slack with relief when Geralt was still standing.

He didn’t understand, unless…

The elder turned to Regis. For a second Geralt felt dread grip him.

“You have already given it up.” The voice inside their heads was dripping poison, and Geralt swallowed bile as he fought against the intrusion.

“You already let him go.”

The elder flung Regis away, and Geralt heard him crash into a wall. He couldn’t spare a glance, because the elder was amassing his rage. His eye flared, and his wings started beating. 

_ “There will be a third sacrifice!” _

The black creature that had consumed Sinja moved towards the elder, who howled in horror and pain as it started to slither over him. Geralt backed away, and the stone started to crumble under his feet as he went. He dragged Dettlaff to his feet and turned towards the women.

“Run!” he howled.

The strike took him by surprise. His chin hit the stone so hard he saw stars, and his sword clattered away. When he managed to drag himself around, the elder was standing over him. The black creature, which seemed to be wrought from pure night and insanity was crawling over him like a thousand insects, and the one clear eye nailed him on the spot.

The wind gave a wail, and then he tasted electricity in the air. A sound like a thunderclap, but somehow wrong, echoed through the courtyard, and a portal opened.

It was nothing like Ciri’s portals, a small voice pointed out inside Geralt’s head. This one was as black as the nightmarish monster devouring the elder. Static electricity seemed to be crackling along its edges, and the smell that poured through made Geralt’s stomach turn.

And then something was crawling out through it, and fear seized him. More of that same blackness. The elder laughed, inside his head as he leaned closer, and the black tentacles that gripped him started to reach for Geralt.

He did the only thing he could think of. His hand shot up and snatched the medallion still hanging from the malformed, clawed hand. He slammed it against the stone floor as hard as he could.

The flame he had seen burning burst free with terrifying force. Geralt was thrown back as the force exploded free, briefly illuminating the curse-forged night around them. He felt himself burn, and then he hit the wall so hard his eyesight went black for a few seconds.

The elder was howling, and the flame was clinging to him like it, too, was alive. Geralt watched with bleary eyes as the two struggled, entwining around each other until there was only a roiling mass of sheer blackness and blindingly bright flame.

The thing crawling through the portal emitted a hiss that sent another stab of terror through Geralt. Before he could do more than scramble to his feet, the elder turned towards the portal.

_ “I will go home.” _

The words came through so strongly that Geralt grabbed his head as it felt like it was splitting in half. There was such strong hatred and deep-cutting despair in it.

_ “I will find the way back.” _

The elder threw himself through the portal. The flame clung to its edges, pulling them inwards, and yet another set of warning bells went off inside Geralt’s head.

“Watch out!” he shouted, not sure if anyone could hear him through the howling wind and the madly crackling magic.

The portal collapsed in on itself. One moment the flames were pulling it closed, and the next it exploded into blinding light that shattered the stone floor under their feet.

Reality tilted with an ear-splitting crack. Geralt’s eyes and ears were full of stone dust and flashing lights as he stumbled down, managed to grab a hold of something that broke under his palms right away, and then he was falling, falling—

A hand shot out from nowhere and gripped his arm tight. The jolt almost dislocated his shoulder. Rocks were falling around him, someone was shouting in pain and fear, and everything was chaos upon horror. Geralt couldn’t do anything but close his eyes and hang on, as around him the whole world crumbled and toppled into the sea. He struggled to keep breathing, locked away inside his head as his ears rang.

Then the roar started to die down. He opened his eyes, blinking against the sting. The last big stones crumbled down, and as the dust started to drift away with the sharp wind, Geralt saw he was hanging over a chasm that opened all the way into the sea. Jagged rocks were protruding at the bottom, and the sea was rushing in to fill the new, enormous crevasse.

He looked up, blinking tears and dust from his eyes, and saw Ivy looking at him. She managed a weak smile, even when her eyes were still seeping blood.

“Going to enjoy the scenery for a bit, eh?”

A hysterical laugh escaped Geralt’s mouth. He did his best to help Ivy haul him back onto what remained of the courtyard. He stumbled onto his knees and fell down, only to see the tower had collapsed as he struggled to turn onto his back.

Then footsteps hit the rubble, and Regis came to a sliding stop next to him. He collapsed practically on top of Geralt with an honest-to-god sob. For a while they stared at each other, and then Geralt pulled the vampire down and crashed their lips together. They were both bloody and covered in dust and debris, but it was the best kiss they had ever shared.

Regis laughed into his mouth as they finally parted for breath, and then his chest started to heave as he seemed to catch up with the reality of what had almost happened. Geralt finally dragged himself into a sitting position and pulled Regis into his lap, and they stayed there, both gasping for air and trying to believe they were alive.

At some point, Geralt felt another brush of comfort. Dettlaff sat down and stayed there, and then he pulled Ivy to him. Geralt watched her cradle Rowan to her chest and rest her head against Dettlaff’s shoulder.

They were alive.

 

When Geralt finally opened his eyes, he saw only lingering clouds in the sky. The cold midwinter sunlight touched him with care and then wiped away the lingering mental dirt from the curse.

“I love you,” Regis murmured into his neck. There was a big gash down the side of his head, still bleeding sluggishly. Smaller nicks and cuts were healing, but when Geralt probed, he was met with bottomless exhaustion. It explained the delayed healing.

“Love you too,” Geralt whispered.

“We made it,” Dettlaff said. He voiced the sentence like he was trying it on for size, not entirely sure he believed it.

Geralt gave him a grin, and the vampire managed a fond eye roll.

“Do you think the elder is truly gone?” Geralt asked after a while. Time was coming in weird slips and chunks, and for a while he wanted nothing more than lie down and sleep.

Regis pulled back and Geralt felt his consciousness reach around the aether around them; it was still closer, but he couldn’t find a way to reach for it himself just then.

“I can’t feel him,” Regis said quietly as he opened his bloodshot eyes. “Something lingers, but it refuses to touch me.”

“I can’t feel the elder either,” Ivy said. She was still leaning on Dettlaff, and the black-haired vampire was holding her easily. He shook his head when Geralt looked at him.

“There’s something, as Regis said, but the elder is gone. A wound in the fabric of the world will linger in this place, but it feels like the flame burned it so that it is closed for now.”

“Can we go home now?” a small voice Geralt didn’t recognize asked. When he craned his head around, he saw Rowan was looking at Ivy with a hopeful expression.

Ivy laughed, but it came out more like a sob.

“Yes we can, little one. As soon as I can stand up.” She hugged Rowan close, and the child clung to her. Dettlaff smiled as he got his feet under him. He helped Ivy and Rowan up, and then offered Geralt a hand.

He was aching all over, and the same soul-deep tiredness he’d felt from Regis was making his legs weak. When Geralt looked around, he saw they had been very lucky; the tower had collapsed into the sea, but had it tilted just another way, they would have all been buried alive.

Regis’ eyes followed the line of his gaze, and then the vampire pressed close and took his hand.

“Let’s go,” he whispered.

Dettlaff bent down as they were picking their way through the rubble. He turned over a rock Geralt was sure he wouldn’t have been able to move, and then gave Geralt his sword back with a smile.

Geralt huffed a laugh as he accepted the weapon. A closer inspection showed a big, ugly scratch running through the whole blade, which was chipped quite badly. It was nothing a good smith wouldn’t be able to fix, he concluded.

As he sheathed the sword, something caught his eye. Regis’ head turned too, and Geralt heard him draw in a breath.

Sinja was lying face down on the place where the stone door had stood. She was covered in rubble, but by some miracle the big rocks had missed her when they had come tumbling down.

Geralt struggled his way to her, and as he carefully turned her around, he realized she was breathing faintly.

Regis was by his side in an instant, fingers flying to her neck. Even when knocked out, her human face had not fallen away.

“She lives,” Regis murmured, sounding astonished. “I thought that creature…”

“What was that?” Geralt asked. He slid his hands under Sinja and lifted her up. It felt like she didn’t weigh a thing.

“I don’t know,” Regis said. He was looking queasy. “But I do know seeing it made me more afraid than ever before. Well, almost,” he said, giving Geralt a weak smile.

Ivy’s gaze grew dark when she saw Sinja. She turned away and continued walking the way they had come.

Geralt heard a triumphant yell before he even set foot on the undamaged part of the stairs. Then he saw a mop of red hair dart up the steps. Walma’s grin was so big it seemed to split her face.

“I knew you’d make it!” she gasped, giving him an awkward hug. 

“She didn’t,” Usamea said as she came up with Marja. The latter was limping heavily, but otherwise all three seemed to be unharmed.

“I can take the girl,” Usamea said, and Geralt surrendered Sinja’s prone form with relief. He wasn’t badly hurt, but he was so damn tired.

“You okay?” he asked Marja, who answered by giving him the finger.

“Twisted my fucking ankle while we ran like headless chicken to avoid getting crushed,” she grumbled. “This is the last time I’m ever working with witchers.”

Geralt laughed, and Regis joined in when he saw Marja’s lips twitch involuntarily.

The way back to the shore was long and Geralt noticed he didn’t really remember all that much of it. Their going was slow, on account of almost all of them being tired and hurting, and the day was turning towards evening when they finally reached the sand.

Clouds were drawing in from the east, and the sun was just starting to touch the horizon. Geralt looked towards where they had left the rowing boat, and realized almost the whole crew of Arlene was there waiting for them. A cheer went up as the pirates saw them approach.

“Welcome back, cap,” the black woman said with a relieved grin when they came closer. “We were just about to start dividing your possessions.”

“Get fucked, Ella,” Marja groaned, and the women around her laughed. Ella rubbed a hand down her face.

“When that huge tower collapsed, we were certain you were done for. And before that we saw lightings and darkness. Let’s just say, a lot of us wanted to turn heel then.”

“Glad you didn’t,” Usamea snorted.

Ella smiled. “We decided we’d wait until sunrise. Good thing you came back before that.”

They were loaded into the small boats, and Geralt leaned back with a tired groan as they started to move back towards Arlene. Regis was leaning against his side, heavy with tiredness but alert. His fingers never loosened their grip from Geralt’s hand, and the witcher didn’t mind that at all.

Back on Arlene, Geralt watched Aaron and Gina tackle Ivy and Rowan to the deck floor. He spared them a smile, but concluded that the family needed their time alone to ride out the shock.

Ella and the other women directed him and Regis into the same cabin they had shared during their trip to Skellige. Someone brought them lukewarm water, and as Geralt felt the ship rock under his feet, he finally peeled off the dirty, damaged armor. His body was aching and his mind felt old and tired. He washed away all the dust, sweat, and blood, watching the water grow murky as his hands worked mechanically.

Regis finished before he did, and Geralt hummed happily when the skinny arms sneaked around his middle. He leaned on Regis, washcloth in hand, and finally it truly sank in.

They had survived.

Regis heard the hitch in his breath. He carefully deposited the cloth into the bucket and then pulled Geralt into the bed. They settled around each other with ease, and Geralt felt sleep drag him under almost immediately. Comforting blackness swallowed him whole, and only the bond glimmered inside it, signaling it was safe to let go of reality for a while.

 

When he woke up after what felt like several slow hours, it took Geralt a moment to remember where he was. His sleep had been ocean-deep and completely dreamless. The ship was creaking around him, and for some reason the sounds and smells surrounding them had come to signal peace inside his head. He buried his face into Regis’ neck just as the vampire stirred and made a pleased hum.

Geralt pressed a kiss to the slow-thumping pulse, and Regis gasped softly. He continued upwards, twisting himself to lay on top of Regis, and by the time he licked into Regis’ mouth, the vampire was smiling and holding him around the waist.

Geralt took his time kissing his mate, because he was just reaching the point where his brain started to believe the curse was gone. Regis was alive and moving against him, his hands sweeping up and down his back. He could heard the wind howling outside, but inside their cabin it was warm.

Regis turned him on his side at some point, and their hands kept roaming, touching everything and ascertaining that the reality was as it seemed. It was a long time before Regis gripped his hips and ground them together, and Geralt bit back a whine. He was hard, but there was no rush now. Regis knew that too, because when he started with his fingers, he didn’t speed up. Geralt allowed him to touch at his own pace, kissing Regis and floating in the sheer relief. Reality curved gently around them, and the rest of the world faded back.

But he could tell something was different. Regis kept looking at him. He kept prying his eyes open and every time Geralt met his gaze, something raw was lurking just beneath the surface. He didn’t want to acknowledge it, but he knew he’d have to, eventually. Instead of saying anything, Geralt cupped Regis cheek and kissed him once again, and it was familiar and the best thing he had ever known.

Regis rolled on top of him when Geralt’s breath was starting to stutter and his muscles were pulled taut against pleasure. The vampire pushed in, but then he stilled and looked down at him, eyes big and desperate all of a sudden.

“You are leaving,” he whispered as he lowered himself down. Their chests came to rest against each other, and Regis thrust once, but then he halted again, lips brushing Geralt’s.

“You are letting me go.”

Geralt closed his eyes as tears started to prickle. He was spilling over, because when the elder had screeched his rage at Geralt not giving the third and last sacrifice, Regis had looked straight at him with an expression of such profound love and sadness it had almost broken him.

He was breaking now. Regis stayed still until Geralt opened his eyes again. He knew he was crying, but he didn’t feel like denying Regis the knowledge that this was hurting him more than anything. He owed his mate that much.

“It’s not making me happy,” he rasped. Regis pressed yet another light kiss to his mouth, right when his own eyes were starting to look suspiciously wet. “But I’ve been feeling you trying to decide, and you want to say yes.”

A sob tore free, deep from Regis chest. He moved again, and pleasure slammed into Geralt who gasped.

“I still don’t  _ know _ ,” Regis said in a thick voice. “The thought of renouncing the bond makes me sick to my core, but—” He couldn’t finish, but he sent over a feeling: the possibility of living among his own, not having to hide all the time. The bone-deep weariness born out of centuries of hiding who and what he was.

Geralt nodded, and Regis started to fuck him, slow and steady despite still crying and on the verge of breaking down completely.

“I remember when I realized I was falling in love with you,” Regis breathed. “I was scared, but the hope was too much to handle. I wanted you so much, already in the beginning. You were everything I had ever hoped for.”

“So are you,” Geralt said in a voice that was giving out. “I wouldn’t change anything we did.” He knew it was the truth; even if someone went back in time and told him that it was going to end like this, he’d do it all over again. In every possible reality he would choose to love Regis, because once he had known that, there wasn’t going back.

Regis felt it all slam into him, and a shiver raced the sob that shook him. He gathered Geralt as close as possible, and they held onto each other as the ship carried them towards the point of no return.

***

Dettlaff felt when the first crack in the pack bond formed. His face must have shown how much it hurt, because Ivy was suddenly in his space and holding him close.

“I wish I could prevent that,” she whispered.

Dettlaff threaded his fingers into Ivy’s hair and held her. He breathed as slowly as possible, and then pulled back from the bond. He needed to step back and allow Regis and Geralt their privacy, because right now they were  _ breaking _ , and he didn’t want to witness it. When it all became a faint thrum in the back of his mind, he opened his eyes.

“It could have happened anyway,” Dettlaff whispered.

Ivy watched him with pained eyes, and he sighed as he pulled her to sit down next to him. They were out on the deck, because neither of them had been able to sleep. Ivy had snuck out of the cabin where her children were slumbering, all three of them squeezed into the same small bunk. She had met Dettlaff on the deck, where he had been watching the stars.

“Regis has always longed for a home,” Dettlaff went on in a quiet voice. Ivy leaned her head on his shoulder.

“It took me a long while to discern his feeling, but then it was impossible to ignore. He yearns for community and for a place where he would feel welcome. He left the tribe long ago to overcome his addiction, which had been born from that exact same wish. Living among humans gave him a purpose, but it also introduced him to such profound loneliness it almost broke him.

“When I brought Regis back, he was furious with me. When his mind healed enough to understand he had not died, he broke down, because he had thought it was finally over. Coming back to the world of living seemed like it was too much to handle. Only when he heard the witcher was alive did he agree to heal properly.”

Ivy was frowning. Her eyes were cloudy, and her mind felt like it was far away.

“Sinja felt like that,” she finally said. “I now understand why she felt so set apart from the rest of our kind, but back then I had no idea. She echoed with it, there was always this hollow sound resonating through her, and no matter what I did I couldn’t make it grow quiet.”

Dettlaff sighed. “Regis is deciding what he is doing at this moment. It was impossible earlier. It was pure luck that Geralt had made his decision before we arrived to Undvik. I know it most likely saved us all.” He looked up at the stars, making sure the pack bond was still locked down. He didn’t want to feel it unravel just yet.

Ivy took his hand. “Would you explain your block to me now? I feel like it has something to do with this all.” Her voice was kind, not demanding. It comforted him.

Dettlaff closed his eyes and called back the memory. The path they had walked in the dreamscape had felt like it would never end, and he had been certain Ivy had been mistaken. Then he had become aware of a nagging feeling.

“I had been taken away from my original pack when I was very young,” he begun, searching for words. “And I had always known something was not quite right with the pack I grew up in, but was never able to find out why. I never fit in, and feeling like that made me withdraw more and more as years went by.

“I never found out why I was taken away, but the fundamental differences between me and my pack members led to the situation I told you about, when the pack elder broke something in me. I don’t know if it will ever heal properly.”

“You can dream now, so it might,” Ivy put in. Dettlaff turned his head to press his nose into her hair. Her floral perfume had faded a bit, but the scent of daisies clung to her stubbornly.

“It might,” he agreed. Something he couldn’t name twisted inside his chest when he saw Ivy smile.

After a long silence, he sighed. “He broke the bond I had to my tribe and my family. He managed to tear it out, root and all, and then the tribe elder who judged me covered the festering wound so it would never heal.”

“I suspect they had no idea you were a dreamwalker,” Ivy said thoughtfully. Her thumb was rubbing circles to Dettlaff’s palm. “They tried to isolate you, knowing it is the worst fate a higher vampire can suffer. If we cannot build bonds, how can we live?”

“It sounds likely.” Dettlaff recognized the truth in it, because the only bonds he could ever remember having were the mirage-like inexplicable guesses, which he only now could categorize as budding anchor bonds. Gharasham had accepted him as one of theirs in name, but he had never properly felt like he belonged in his new tribe.

“When we found your block, I heard whispers,” Ivy said carefully. “It was just an empty place, but it felt like it shouldn’t have been like that.”

Dettlaff swallowed. He hadn’t had time to think about it yet. It was still hurting, despite the block being gone.

“It was the place where my family was,” he got out. “I had a family, before they were taken away from me.”

It hit home, then. His family, gone. He couldn’t remember their faces or names, just that they had once been there. His breath caught in his throat. Ivy held on to him as grief crested like a tidal wave. She hummed something soothing, and stars blinked and swam as he looked up to the night sky, his breath rising towards it in white clouds.

“I can’t remember anything,” he whispered when he felt like he wouldn’t drown by acknowledging the hurt. “I know I had a family, but now there is just an empty space where they used to be.”

“And that was what you shied away from, what they trusted you could never overcome on your own,” Ivy finished for him. Her voice was quivering with anger. Dettlaff nodded. He was so tired.

“I am so sorry,” Ivy said after a long silence. “I want to help you.”

“You’ve already helped me,” Dettlaff said. He managed a weak smile, but Ivy didn’t answer it. Her eyes were stubborn when she stared at him.

“No one should be alone,” she said. “And no one should forget their family.”

Dettlaff shrugged. “I have no idea how to fix it.”

“Me neither,” Ivy admitted. “But I can’t bear the thought that you keep hurting.” Her mouth snapped closed, as if she had blurted out something she had initially thought to keep secret.

Dettlaff looked at her for a long time. To think that they had started from a place of such deep mutual mistrust, only to arrive here; to find themselves hovering right at the edge of something without name or shape, but what both of them craved, deep inside.

He pulled Ivy into a hug. She went stiff for a moment, but then relaxed. Her breath brushed against his throat, its warmth a stark contrast against the winter cold surrounding them.

“At least I’m not alone anymore,” he said with a faint laugh, mostly to cover how profoundly lost he felt. His pack was breaking as he spoke, but he knew he would remain tied to both Regis and Geralt for as long as he lived.

And Ivy was inside his head, inching her way in without neither of them taking conscious steps to make it happen.

“No, I suppose you’re not,” she whispered.

***

At first, Marja Darling had adamantly refused to sail back to Kaer Trolde. She wanted to escape Skellige right away, especially after Ivy had assured her she and her kids could make it back to Holmstein on their own, provided they wouldn’t have to fly over open water for too long.

But Geralt had refused to back down. He knew he needed to go back and explain to Cerys that the curse was broken. He was aware of the risks, but he wanted to take the chance. He needed the closure, for a reason he couldn’t explain even to himself.

After he and Regis had finally emerged out from their cabin, holding hands and quiet, everyone seemed to read them correctly and give them space. Something was changing between them, Geralt could feel it. He knew it was the bond slowly starting to unravel, and he suspected that it wasn’t hurting just yet only because the decision had been mutual.

Dettlaff and Ivy had come to them, both with alarm in their eyes, but Regis had only shaken his head at their half-formed questions.

“We can’t talk about this right now. I’m sorry.” His voice had broken at the last syllable, and that had been that. They spent the rest of the journey sitting together, Regis’ head tucked under Geralt’s chin, and whispering stray words of no big importance.

They had spared a short visit to see Sinja, but the woman was unresponsive. Her eyes were open, but there was nothing in that gaze; it was as if the spirit had vacated her body. Geralt knew Ivy would need to deal with her, but he couldn’t muster up the energy to ask about it just then.

When Kaer Trolde finally loomed ahead them, Marja Darling came to find Geralt.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, witcher,” she said. Her voice betrayed her worry, and Geralt suspected, to his own surprise, that not all of it was directed at her and her crew.

“If ya make it back, we’ll sail back to the Continent as soon as possible. You’re welcome to tag along,” she added. “And I know I said some bad things to you, master,” she went on as she turned to Regis, “but that goes for you as well.”

Regis shook his head and looked down as he blinked tears away.

“I won’t be going back,” he whispered.

Marja’s mouth fell open, but Geralt shook his head as he hugged Regis closer.

“Not now.”

Someone started to blow a horn in the harbor as they drew closer, and by the time Walma and another woman of the crew lowered the gangplank for them, there were guards waiting for them.

Regis came down with him, half a step behind, and Geralt knew there was nothing he could have said or done to make the vampire stay back. Somehow it felt new, to have someone standing beside him, insisting on having his back even though neither knew what that would entail.

Cerys was waiting for him. Her arms were crossed and there was a grim expression on her face. Geralt gave her a short bow when he stopped a respectful distance away. Guards closed in around them, and he sighed.

“Your grace,” Geralt said quietly. The formal address made Cerys flinch.

“The curse is broken.”

A rush went through the guards and the people who had gathered around them. It sounded like a curious wind, as people repeated his words, over and over again. Geralt looked around, and he saw hope and anger mixing on everyone’s faces.

“Jarl Huginn sent me a raven,” Cerys finally said. Her voice was carefully steady, but her eyes flashed with something akin to apprehension. “He said there was a storm made of magic on Undvik, centering on the old elven tower at the northern peak of the island.”

“That’s true,” Geralt said. He felt Regis put a hand on his arm, and the contact gave him enough strength to go on. “The person behind the curse was hiding at Tor Gvalch’ca. We managed to defeat him and break the curse.”

“The tower collapsed,” Cerys said with a hint of incredulity. “Was that the curse, too?”

“It was, your grace,” Regis said quietly. Cerys’ eyes snapped to him, and then flickered to his hand which was still on Geralt’s arm.

The people were still muttering around them, their voices ebbing and flowing. Geralt couldn’t find the energy to discern whether they were happy or angry.

Cerys sighed. She put her hands on her hips, but it wasn’t the same rigid pose as only moments ago.

“You were given one day to leave Skellige,” she said in a clear, ringing voice. “You did not obey my command, and therefore I am forced to pass a sentence.”

A general clamor rose up. Regis’ hand tightened, Geralt had to shoot him a warning glare, and then Cerys held up her hand and everyone fell quiet.

“But, because you broke the curse that has held my realm so tightly, I will not order your execution, as I normally would need to.”

Geralt exhaled in relief. He hadn’t really thought what he would’ve done if she had decided otherwise. Someday soon he would need to address his belief to his stupid luck.

“You will, however, be forbidden from entering Skellige for a decade,” Cerys went on with a grim expression. “You will be given one day to depart. The pirates you worked with shall also be banished. Their ship will be supplied for the journey as a thanks for their involvement, but they are not welcome to the islands ever again.”

Geralt realized Marja Darling had also followed him off her ship only when he heard her utter a relieved sigh.

He barely registered Cerys turning to her guards and ordering them to disperse the crowd. They stood in silence as the men and women moved along the docks, growling at the curious islanders until most of them returned to their duties. Only then the last coldness faded from Cerys’ expression, and she was once again looking like the woman Geralt had met at the feast he’d attended with Yen.

“I didn’t want to do banish you, but I have no choice,” Cerys said in a low, sad voice.

“It’s alright,” Geralt said. He knew that as a queen, Cerys couldn’t show unlimited mercy to an outsider. “I promise to honor what you ordered.”

Regis took his hand, then. Geralt felt a momentary brush of anxiety, but then he pushed it away.

Cerys looked at their joined hands, but didn’t say anything. Instead she looked at Arlene, where the crew was already working with the dockhands the guards had ordered to bring in supplies.

“Every time we meet, I think life can’t get anymore peculiar,” Cerys said with a bitter smile. “And every single time you prove me wrong.”

Geralt huffed a laugh. Then he remembered something. He dug his free hand into a pocket, and pulled out the remains of the medallion of Kvasir. He’d scooped it up almost as an afterthought when they had left the ruined tower.

“Can you make sure this gets to Jarl Sága? Tell her I’m sorry I couldn’t bring it to her whole,” he asked. Cerys’ eyes widened in recognition as she looked at the destroyed medallion. The green-tinted gold, in which the crystal had been set, was blackened and distorted.

“I promised to help her, because she wanted to prove her ancestry and that she is the legitimate heir to Madman Lugos,” Geralt went on. “She wants to rebuild clan Drummond. That’s why I was helping her. I’m sorry I neglected to mention that.”

He knew Sinja had been lying about Sága. The vampire had stolen the medallion from Marja Darling, and that the jarl of clan Drummond had only wanted it to build something good. Geralt hoped Sága would find a way nonetheless.

Cerys took the medallion and turned it around in her hands.

“My father used to tell me and Hjalmar stories about this,” she whispered. “I’ll make sure Sága receives the news.”

“Marja Darling was going to sell the medallion back to you,” Geralt said with a tired chuckle. “But the people behind the curse stole it from her before she could.” A thought occurred to him.

“Captain Darling was telling the truth about the cursed sword, by the way. She only bought it, and had no idea it was cursed.”

Cerys frowned, but there was pain lurking behind her eyes.

“Oddleifr will never be the same,” she said in a faint voice. “I wish I could help him, and not just to make our marriage a possibility in the future. His grasp on reality is slowly eroding, and I don’t know if I have to heart to lock him away when the last of that rock crumbles from under his feet.”

Geralt felt that same mix of anger and sorrow when he looked at Cerys’ depressed expression, but before he could come up with anything, the seneschal himself appeared from somewhere.

“Your grace, the orders have been given. The ship will depart once the witcher is ready and the supplies have been carried in,” he said. He avoided Geralt’s eyes first, but then his stiff posture crumbled all of a sudden and he turned to face them properly.

Geralt felt Regis tighten his hold and step just a bit closer. There was protective anger swirling in the bond. Oddleifr looked at them for a long while, and then his stoic face turned sad.

“Geralt, Regis. I want to apologize.”

Geralt thought he heard wrong, but Regis’ shock was forcing him to accept he had not hallucinated the words. Cerys was looking at Oddleifr like she wasn’t understanding a thing.

Oddleifr turned to look Regis in the eye. “I wronged, you, master. I thought you were a threat, and instead of acting honorably, I chose the vilest and most hurtful way possible. I can only say I hope you will be able to forgive me one day.”

Regis opened his mouth, but no words came out. The seneschal blinked his eyes, and slowly released his hands from the rigid fists they had balled into.

“All my life, I was told that men who love other men are sinful and wrong. They were called all manner of things I won’t repeat, and everyone claimed they were cowardly abominations. I never knew different, and it didn’t occur to me to question this before you saved me and Cerys from the vampires, master witcher.” He looked up, shame making his cheek grow redder and redder. The massive scar that cut his face in half stood out stark white.

“I beg for forgiveness. I have been a bitter man after I lost my ability to fight, but I had no right to threaten you.”

Cerys’ eyes were full of tears. She brushed a hand against Oddleifr’s, who looked at her with a pained expression.

“I will tell you the whole tale, my queen. But not now.”

Cerys only nodded. She blinked the tears away and turned to Geralt.

“Farewell, my friend,” she said quietly. “If gods are good, we will meet again one day.”

Geralt could only nod to her, but he hoped his expression told her he didn’t bear any grudge.

Cerys and Oddleifr took their leave, and Geralt made his way to where Dettlaff was standing with Ivy and her kids. Geralt noticed Dettlaff kept casting glances at her, but he knew it wasn’t a good time to point that out.

“You’re truly staying.” Dettlaff’s voice was small as he looked at Regis. Regis’ face crumbled, but he managed a nod. Geralt pulled him closer, winding an arm around his waist. Something was shattering inside of him.

“I feel so guilty, but I—I can’t ignore the possibility of living without having to hide everything that I am,” Regis said in a thick voice. Geralt pressed a kiss into his hair, not caring at all if someone could see. He would be gone soon enough.

Ivy started to cry, just then. Her chest heaved, and Dettlaff pulled her closer as her children huddled to her, each of them somehow seeming to understand what was happening.

“I hope we would have never met,” she finally said in a thick voice. “I broke you.”

“We could have broken anyway,” Geralt said quietly. He was hurting viciously, but he knew it was the truth; the troubles had been there all along, and the trip to Skellige had just dragged them forth earlier than expected.

Before Ivy could say anything, someone walked up to them. Geralt startled, because he had not heard them coming.

“Pardon the intrusion,” the man said in a level voice. He was short and skinny, with auburn hair. He was dressed in unassuming grey clothing and wrapped in a black cloak. There was an intricate symbol embroidered to the front of his tunic; Geralt thought it looked a bit like a sea snake. The newcomer looked like a man of forty with his lively blue eyes, but right then something nudged at Geralt.

A higher vampire.

“Ivy Ainsworth,” the man said, addressing Ivy who had stopped crying. She was staring at the symbol with wide, scared eyes.

“You have been living in Holmstein, as the terms of your trial period dictate,” the man went on. His voice was friendly, but Ivy was still frozen stiff with fear. The man finally acknowledged the rest of them, his eyes sweeping over them all.

“My name is Marius Alfonsi. I represent the village of Zericel.”

Geralt’s eyes grew wide. Marius Alfonsi met them calmly before returning his gaze to Ivy.

“We were recently made aware of your involvement with the curse and what came to pass in the island of Undvik and at Tor Gvalch’ca. The council of Zericel offers its gratitude for stopping more widespread destruction.”

Ivy’s tension snapped, and she slumped against Dettlaff.

“Oh, elders,” she rasped, wiping her face. “Here I thought you were coming to punish us.”

Marius Alfonsi chuckled. “We are not unreasonable. You had been obeying the terms of your trial period perfectly before these unfortunate incidents, and then, with your associates, went above and beyond to solve the trouble. Therefore the council has dispatched me to inform you that the village welcomes you and your children.”

Ivy’s mouth opened. Her eyes grew enormous.

The messenger smiled with pursed lips, clearly understanding Ivy would need a moment to process. He turned to look at Dettlaff and then Regis.

“We have also agreed that you, Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy and Dettlaff van der Eretein, will be granted access to Zericel. If you wish to join our community, you will be granted full citizenship rights after a trial period of five human years.”

Regis’ breath hitched, and Geralt squeezed his hand. Despite how crushing the sorrow was, he felt a gentle brush of happiness for Regis.

Marius Alfonsi finally turned to Geralt. His smile took on a regretful tilt.

“Geralt of Rivia. We are aware of your unique bond with Emiel Regis, but we cannot accept you into our community. Zericel was founded upon the principles we, higher vampires of the tribe Gharasham, agreed upon, and the first and most important of them is that no human can set foot into our home.”

Geralt nodded and looked down. He hadn’t at any point held any hope that he would be able to join Regis.

“The council, however, agreed that your involvement in breaking the grip of the former elder of Skellige was crucial. Therefore, we took the liberty of retrieving the sword you lost to the sea.”

Geralt’s head snapped up. Marius Alfonsi had not been holding a sword, yet there it was. He presented Aerondight to Geralt with steady hands, who accepted it with a mute nod.

“We have added a charm of our own to the blade, so that it can never be broken by a vampire’s hands,” the man added in a quiet tone. “May it keep you and your loved ones safe.”

Then he sighed. “As for the fate of Sinja Mac Uileagóid, the daughter of Woden Mac Uileagóid… We will take her body to Zericel. She will be imprisoned indefinitely for her crimes against our kind. Should she ever recover her sanity, the council will grant her a fair trial.”

“You guys have a council?” Geralt asked before he could stop himself. Marius turned to look at him with a raised eyebrow, but then he smiled.

“We do. Another principle we abide by is democracy. The council is elected, and no member is permitted to sit in it for more than a decade at once. Now that Skellige lacks an elder, we are forced to revise some of our rules, but I hazard a guess that we won’t be electing a new elder anytime soon.”

He turned to look at Rowan, suddenly. The child grew stiff.

“We won’t begrudge your parentage. You have my word as the current leader of the council that you will not be harmed.”

He turned to Ivy again as he adjusted his cloak. “You will be contacted shortly about relocating to Zericel. Until then, walk in peace.” He nodded to the rest of them, and walked away. At some point he simply vanished.

Ivy turned to look at Dettlaff and Regis. She looked dumbstruck.

“I won’t be coming to Zericel,” Dettlaff said quietly. Ivy turned to him and nodded, her eyes sad and accepting.

“I know.”

“I wish we had met each other under better circumstances,” Dettlaff murmured to her, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Ivy caught his hand and pressed it briefly against her cheek, closing her eyes as she fought against tears. Then she let it go and stepped back, before turning to Geralt and Regis.

“You have finally decided,” she told Regis, who nodded. Geralt felt guilt try to devour Regis again, and he pushed against it, trying to burn it away. After a while, it retreated a bit.

“I will come with you,” Regis whispered. “Even though—” His voice broke, and Geralt pulled him into a hug. Regis started to cry, and Dettlaff took Ivy’s hand to lead her and her children away.

Ivy met Geralt’s eyes once more.

“I wish you all the best, witcher. It has been the greatest honor to know you. I will never forget what you did for my family.”

Geralt fought back the tightness in his throat.

“I hope you’ll find a home.”

When Ivy, Dettlaff, and the kids had walked away, Geralt let the last of his control slip away. He buried his face into Regis’ tangled hair and let the tears finally come, chest growing tighter and tighter until he was certain he’d simply crack.

“I don’t want you to go,” Regis said, speaking against his neck where he had hidden away. “I don’t know if this is the right decision, and it’s  _ killing  _ me.”

“You have to find out that for yourself,” Geralt whispered hoarsely. He pulled back a bit, and cupped Regis’ cheek to make him meet his gaze. “If you don’t go, you’ll regret it the rest of your life.”

Regis nodded, and his face crumbled all over again. He pulled Geralt into kiss there, and Geralt didn’t spare a thought to who might see. He pressed against Regis and kissed him, tongue tasting salt and a hint of blood where Regis had been biting his lip. They stayed like that for a long time, trying to imprint the shape of one another into their memory so that it would never fade.

“Know that you are loved,” Regis whispered against his mouth when they had to come up for air.

Geralt nodded, not opening his eyes just yet. He knew he’d have to let Regis go soon, but he wanted to hang onto him for a second longer.

“You hold my heart,” he said, feeling out the phrase Regis had used so many times.

Regis’ breath became a sob, and he pulled Geralt into one last kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Name of the vampire village comes from the Etruscan language which I've happily been butchering throughout this fic. All mistakes are my own.  
>  **Zeri:** "free"  
>  **Cel:** "earth, ground, soil"
> 
> One more to go! Holy shit!


	16. Return

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, the last chapter. I'm going to need a while to wrap my brain around the fact that this huge story is now finished. Enjoy the last leg of our journey, everyone. <3
> 
> A massive, massive thank you to my beta [Tsurai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsurai/pseuds/tsurai). Their efforts have made this fic so much better.

Novigrad welcomed them with bleak sunshine and the furious cawing of seagulls. The free city looked pittoresque when viewed from the sea, but once the ship drew closer it became that much more real; Geralt listened to the dockhands cursing and scrabbling about as Arlene drifted in, and once the hull thunked against the dock, he felt a faint smile tug at his lips.

The trip back to the Continent had felt much longer than it probably was.

He’d spent the first day inside his quarters, curled up to brave the pain and staring at a wall. The reality of his situation felt entirely too great to handle, and just when he had felt like he’d suffocate under it, Walma had kicked his door open and demanded his help with the sails.

Adjusting the sails had been rough work that required a surprising amount of finesse. They had replaced a lot of old ropes when they had hit a calm patch for a day, and after spending most of five days climbing up and down rope ladders and listening to Walma insult his handiwork in three languages, one of which he didn’t speak, Geralt was feeling a little better.

Walma had asked about Regis on the fourth night, when they had been cradling a stolen wine bottle in her quarters after a long day. Geralt had dreaded starting to cry again, and he’d bit back everything until it had been too much. The words had burst free, and Walma had held his hand as he choked on the story, little by little coaxing it out.

It didn’t feel any easier after that, but life didn’t care if one witcher was walking around with half of his heart missing. It dragged on around him, and Geralt knew he’d have no choice but let it; as distance had grown, the bond had faded, but the actual unraveling had started a bit later. Geralt had woken up from a vivid nightmare, and when his muddled brain finally grasped he was alone in the bed, he’d felt worse than ever before.

Feeling solid ground under his feet after more than a week was a relief. Geralt shouldered his bag and then bent down to give Walma one last hug.

“You take care now,” she said. “I’m gonna come check up on you some day. See that fancy vineyard of yours with my own two eyes.”

“Anytime,” Geralt said with a laugh. He knew Walma had been named the new first mate after Usamea had finally convinced Marja Darling that she was truly leaving the crew of Arlene.

That had involved a lot of heated conversations, culminating in a shouting match on the deck late one night, which ended up Geralt holding Marja Darling back while five women tackled Usamea down before they managed to exchange punches. After they had slept on it, the two women had shook hands and cursed each other, and Usamea had started to nudge Marja into picking Walma as her successor.

The Aen Seidhe in question walked down the gangplank with a faded duffle bag. She hugged Ella and Walma, laughed when Marja Darling gave her the finger, and then surprised Geralt by coming to where he was still standing.

“Well, _Gwynbleidd_ ,” she said as she let the bag hit the ground. “Where are you headed?”

Geralt shrugged. “Home, I guess. It’ll be spring before I make it to Toussaint, and my majordomo will want to bug me with the vineyard business.”

He wasn’t making any definite plans, but he knew he’d like to go back to Corvo Bianco for a while. It wouldn’t feel like home without Regis, but it was as good a destination as any, for now.

Usamea scratched her scar with a thoughtful expression. “Say, witcher, how is Toussaint treating the Aen Seidhe?”

Geralt blinked. “Well, it’s not Redania,” he managed. He shook his head. “It’s not bad, as far as I know. Toussaint is a part of Nilfgaard, so they have kind of strict policies against bigotry.” He thought back, and remembered seeing several elves here and there, mostly belonging to the working class but none of them sporting the haunted, desperate look of their kin up North.

Usamea smiled. “Want some company for the road?”

Geralt considered her for a while, and then nodded. “On one condition.”

Usamea cocked her head questioningly, and Geralt grinned at her.

“You stop calling me Gwynbleidd.”

The Aen Seidhe laughed, slapping his arm as she picked up her bag again.

***

Usamea had proved herself easy company by the time they reached Vizima. She had purchased a horse from the same stable that had taken care of Roach during Geralt’s absence, and the stable master had given her a hefty discount once he’d realized she was a friend of the witcher’s.

Dandelion and Zoltan had both been absent from the Chameleon, and Geralt had not felt like waiting for them to come back. He knew Dandelion would take offence at him for skipping town without so much as a hello, but the thought of answering their questions had felt like too much. He’d left a brief note with the barhand, and once Usamea had finished exchanging news with Éibhear Hattori, they had departed through the Portside Gate.

Vizima was almost recovered. The silver lilies and the Nilfgaardian sun flew together everywhere he could see, and people looked happier and healthier, even though the war had hit Temeria hard. Geralt took a contract to dispatch a nightwraith troubling the graveyard, and while he was busy with that, Usamea disappeared somewhere.

When the wraith had been laid to rest, the elf found him nursing a twisted elbow in a Trade Quarter inn. She was in a cheery mood, but when Geralt dared to ask, she only grinned.

“Made some calls. None of your business.”

After Vizima, their journey passed through the southern part of Temeria without much incident. People tended to recognize Geralt in all bigger towns, and in Brugge Geralt realized that Usamea had most likely counted on that; when everyone was staring at him and whispering about the White Wolf, an Aen Seidhe missing an ear was hardly noticed. The thought made him smile, and he took care to attract some attention as they continued on, to make sure the elf would stay incognito.

Spring crept up on them as they rode. Geralt gave Armeria a wide berth, and Usamea didn’t ask why; she took one look at his face and turned her mount towards Razwan instead, and the witcher was thankful to follow her without a word. Going to Armeria would have woken up too many memories.

Crossing the Yaruga at Red Port was bad enough, and when Geralt dismounted at the familiar bridge, Usamea rode on, whistling tunelessly. Geralt watched her go, and knew she’d set up camp somewhere close and wait for him. They had spoken very little about anything serious as they traveled, but some things didn’t need to be said.

He sat down on the edge of the bridge and watched the river flow under him. Memories crept up on him, and he tried to let them come and go. It had been so many years since he and Cahir had fought on this bridge, while Regis had tried to prevent Milva from bleeding out as she miscarried after getting hit by a crossbow bolt. He hunched down as he realized that life had finally taken the last member of his hansa away from him.

He had known that coming this way would be painful, not to mention risky; if he was spotted by Rivian or Lyrian soldiers and recognized, he was certain Queen Meve would be very interested in having a word with him. He held no illusions about being welcome into her realm, not after deserting from her army group in order to continue looking for Ciri all those years ago.

Usamea was skinning rabbits when he finally walked Roach to where she had set up camp. She had proven to be a splendid archer, after complaining at length about the bow she had bought and then making her own modifications to it as they traveled. By now, the weapon resembled more a Scoia’tael bow than a normal one, but Geralt hadn’t commented on it. Some habits just died hard.

He sat down, and only then realized there were three rabbits.

“Expecting someone?” he asked, raising eyebrow. He had seen Usamea talking with almost all the elves they had come across, and the lack of visitors had been more disconcerting than some ex-commandos seeking them out. Geralt had ridden with the Scoia’tael in the past, and he had been able to pick them out from the city elves they’d met.

Usamea met his eyes over the campfire. She had undone the braid in her hair, and it hung over her shoulder as her fingers worked. The flower and vine tattoo was just peeking over her red scarf.

“Just one man,” she said in a low voice. “I did say he would come find you.”

Geralt spent a short moment gaping, and then the conversation they’d had on Arlene came back to him. He didn’t have time to say anything when there was a rustle from a tree.

A tall, lanky figure dropped down from his perch and straightened up. Usamea nodded at him with a smug grin, but Geralt sprang to his feet.

Iorveth had given up the mismatched armor he had been wearing the last time they had seen. The red bandanna was gone as well, and his empty eye socket was covered with just a simple patch. Something had happened to his scar, because it was infinitely less prominent than Geralt remembered. He was wearing nondescript green and brown leather armor that looked human-made. His trademark bow was nowhere to be seen.

“ _Ceádmil, Gwynbleidd_.”

Geralt stood still, taking in the elf, until Iorveth actually laughed. He turned to look at Usamea.

“Did they struck him mute or what, _sor’ca_?”

Usamea chortled and the sound shook Geralt out from his stupor.

“Fucking hell, Iorveth. Is that really you?” He heard how disbelieving his voice was.

Iorveth stepped closer and they hugged. He felt skinnier than Geralt remembered. There was a knowing glint in his remaining eye as they sat down.

“Usamea sent word to me from Vizima. I have been tracking you for a few days now, to make sure no one is following.” Iorveth leaned against a tree stump and smiled, the same crooked grin Geralt remembered so well. “You’re getting old, _vatt’ghern_. I could have snuck up on you any time I wanted.”

“Speak for yourself,” Usamea said cheerfully. Geralt laughed at that, because despite the persistent sorrow that had made home inside his chest, meeting an old friend lightened his mood considerably.

“Where have you been? I honestly thought you died at Loc Muinne,” Geralt asked. He didn’t know if he’d be given an honest answer, but it didn’t matter just then.

Iorveth waved a hand. “Here and there. I trekked through Temeria at one point to seek out Triss Merigold. She was living in Novigrad back then. It was before Radovid the Loon started burning sorceresses as a hobby.”

“Did you find her?” Geralt asked. Usamea had started to prepare food, and she angrily slapped his hands away when he tried to help.

“Sure,” Iorveth shrugged. “We made amends, and she helped me disguise the scar a bit, since it was giving me no end of trouble. Any damn _dh’oine_ could recognize me by it.” He fell silent and watched the flames for a bit.

“After that… I’ve been trying to stay alive. Been all over the damn Continent by now. Helping my people where I can, trying to keep undercover.” The word were nonchalant, but Geralt could hear the tired note in Iorveth’s voice.

He knew how that felt.

“Ever thought about settling down?” he asked, making the elf snort.

“Me? Where would I go? Francesca Findabair is honor-bound to hand me over to Emhyr var Emreis if I ever set foot in Dol Blathanna, and anywhere else it’s only a matter of time before someone connects the dots.” Iorveth dragged a hand through his short-shorn, dark hair. “Guess I’ll just continue wandering.”

Then he turned to look at Geralt properly and grinned. “But from what I’ve heard, you’ve had a busy few years, _Gwynbleidd_.”

“He can still call you that? That’s so unfair,” Usamea said as she turned the rabbits over the fire. Iorveth shot her a puzzled look, and Geralt laughed.

“It’s gonna be a long story.”

Iorveth nodded, and his smile lost the mocking edge. “I have nothing but time, my friend.”

***

Spring in Skellige took Regis by surprise.

It was slow, objectively speaking, but one day he just realized the ground was pushing out green plants and the sunshine had some warmth to it. The paths he had memorized grew moist and muddy, and day by day the sun seemed more and more reluctant to go down at the end of day.

Zericel had taken a long time to get used to. Even though Regis didn’t yet have full rights as a member of the community, in the everyday life it didn’t really show. He, Ivy, and the children had been given a warm welcome, and housed with another small family until they managed to build themselves a place to stay.

It was a surprisingly lively place. The island was bigger than Regis had expected, and there were three major settlements scattered around it. They had stayed at the biggest one on the eastern shore for now, but visiting the others had been encouraged from the beginning. Life was simple and rural, but since the residents hailed from almost every country in the Continent, cultures had mixed with each other to form a completely unique place. Regis had never heard so many languages spoken in such a small area, and his polyglotism had quickly earned him the favor of several families.

He’d also become known not only for his involvement in the curse breaking, but his skills as a herbalist. He had started to work with the locals as soon as the shock of a new environment had worn off, and come spring he could tell the younger ones were starting to look at him as a teacher of sorts.

Getting used to not having to hide his true face had taken the longest, but no one had remarked on it. Some few chose to go about their lives with the human faces they had adopted, and it was regarded with distant curiosity, at most. Regis’ chest had felt odd when he had tried to get used to seeing so many of his kind, living in peace and showing their true selves. And little by little, he’d let his disguise go, and as he did, the feeling in his chest eased and he felt like he found his footing.

But underneath it all, he kept hurting.

He missed Geralt so much he felt like his being would just crumble to dust. He had trouble sleeping. The witcher kept appearing in his dreams, and during daytime Regis had to keep busy, or else he’d feel like his feet would give out. He was glad that no one had thought to bring a still to the island, because the temptation to drink away the sorrow could have proven impossible to overcome.

Ivy saw he wasn’t healing, but when she’d asked, Regis hadn’t managed to find the words. Zericel was everything he’d hoped for and more, and in a way he was happy, and yet his heart kept hurting, the pain nesting there like a small bird. Something black and shapeless hovered over him at all times, blocking out daylight.

The children had settled into their new home with little difficulty. Aaron had happily discarded his human guise the second he was told it was allowed, and Regis was glad to see the young man come out of his shell. He was proving to be verbose and clever, and happy to learn alchemy from Regis.

Gina missed her friends and home in Holmstein. She had grown shy and quiet, and Ivy had on several occasions confided in Regis about how worried she was. Regis did his best to stay close with Gina, who had taken on sneaking into his cabin in the evenings to listen him read. Regis made sure to keep his appearance human when she came to visit, because he could sense it gave her some comfort.

The third child, Rowan, had surprised Regis the most. There was something that reminded Regis of Dettlaff in them, and when they had started to seek him out, Regis had felt a measure of consolation. They were still quiet, but every now and then they talked, and every time Regis felt a brush of wonder; despite everything, he had found another family among his own people after deciding to step away from his tribe all those years ago.

His brother had stayed with him and Ivy for another day after Arlene had sailed, and then departed. He had promised to keep an eye on Geralt, and Regis had been aching to go with Dettlaff when he’d taken wing one evening.

 

As on so many evenings before, Regis’ feet took him to the secluded cliff face he’d found during his first weeks at Zericel. He had been unable to sleep at all, then, and had taken to walking to avoid going completely mental with longing. He remembered how Geralt had had trouble sleeping after being released from the prison, and the memory had made him double over with pain.

The cliffs looked over to Spikeroog, the lights of a small village just visible to his perch. Regis often came here when he wanted to be alone. He sat and stared at the sky, wrote in his notebook, or just dozed, allowing the cold wind whip through his hair.

He had cut it short again. There had been a stray thought of cutting off the parts of him that his mate had touched, but Regis had quickly dismissed it as something born out of the depression. It was an old, familiar sadness he was sinking into, and he wasn’t sure how to stop the downward slide. He was managing, but he wondered when he would start healing.

Regis sat down with a tired sigh. Sleep had been even harder to come by as the days got longer, and as he wrapped himself into his cloak, he felt the chasm of hurt inside his chest throb. He watched as sunlight dyed the ocean brilliant red, and some time later the hues shifted towards cooler tones. He could smell the budding flowers in a shrub that was growing just above him, and the moss that was quickening with life where it clung to the cliffs.

A rustle of footsteps made him look up, and it was all the warning he got before Rowan dropped to the ledge. They landed on sure feet, and Regis sat up straighter. He had not known the child knew of his hiding place, but in hindsight he wasn’t exactly surprised. Rowan was very perceptive for their age.

“Am I disturbing you?” they asked, meeting Regis’ eyes. They hadn’t yet allowed the human mask to slip, and it was firmly in place now, too.

The longer he stayed on Zericel, the more Regis was coming to appreciate his disguise. It was weird, because he’d spent years wishing for a chance to take the mask off, only to discover it had been much more than a mask once he did; the human face had become _his_ , and Regis missed being known by it.

“You’re not,” Regis told Rowan. He patted the stone beside himself, and they sat down with a faint huff.

“How are you doing?” Regis asked after a while. Rowan hugged their knees to their chest and pursed their lips thoughtfully.

“ _Ati_ keeps telling me no one will hate me for being related to the former elder, but I’m afraid she’s wrong,” Rowan finally murmured. Regis smiled at their insistence to refer Ivy as mother.

“She’s right, nonetheless,” Regis said gently. “None of us can choose who we’re related to.”

Rowan sighed. “I keep getting afraid I’ll go crazy like he did. He told me there’s something wrong with me.”

Regis had spent considerable time thinking about the elder’s words. He had also discussed them with Ivy and the council. None of the council members had wanted to pass judgement on a child, only agreeing to offer them help and keep an eye on them.

“You do remember Dettlaff?” Regis said quietly. Rowan turned to look at him before nodding.

“He thought there was something wrong with him, too. Something he couldn’t control, and which made him violent.” Regis knew his brother wouldn’t mind him telling this. They had exchanged letters, and Dettlaff seemed to be doing much better. He had refrained from dreamwalking thus far, but being able to dream was changing his life.

“He got better,” Regis went on. “Sometimes you can’t fix everything, but usually you learn to live with the bits that heal a bit crooked.”

“Like what _ati_ is doing to the human man at the keep?”

Regis nodded. Ivy had discussed the issue of the seneschal with the council, and they had formed a tentative plan. Ivy had been visiting his dreams regularly for a few months now, but fixing what the curse had broken was a massive effort, according to her. She was determined to keep trying, and from what Regis had heard, some improvement could be seen.

“Like that,” Regis admitted. He leaned back to watch the last of the sunset redness fade from the open water. The silence between them was light.

“You miss him.”

Regis didn’t have to ask who Rowan meant. He bit his lip and nodded once, trying to keep his feelings in check. Rowan shuffled closer and took his hand. Regis swallowed.

He missed Geralt so much that he was falling apart. Every day the hurting part inside him grew stronger.

“I don’t like it when my family hurts,” Rowan said in a whisper. “Why do you stay here, if you want to go back home?”

_Home._

Regis thought of Corvo Bianco, how the vines were surely in bloom by now, and how the grove would be full of birdsong and the shrine they had built kept clean by the godling named Marie. He thought of Geralt, and how they had planned on returning together.

“I don’t know,” Regis said hoarsely. “Perhaps I’m trying to convince myself that I made the right decision by coming here instead.”

Rowan frowned, their forehead wrinkling under the mane of red hair they didn’t let anyone cut.

“But _ati_ says that you must learn to admit when you make a mistake. Only then you can fix it.”

It was so simple, but Regis felt something shift inside his chest at the words. He turned to look at Rowan.

“Your mother is a very wise woman, Rowan.” He managed a smile.

***

_Convincing Iorveth to accompany him and Usamea all the way to Toussaint had not been easy. The elf had spent the first fortnight of riding with them voicing suspicion after suspicion, switching to general griping by the time they crossed the border to the duchy. Geralt let the grumbling wash over him, allowing the elves to bicker among themselves, and focused on picking a route that wouldn’t perfectly mirror the one he’d taken with the hansa years ago._

_When Corvo Bianco came into view one evening in May, Geralt stopped his horse. Iorveth grew silent and pale as he stared at the buildings, just visible between two valleys and some trees._

_“If you want, you can come with me,” Geralt said for what felt like the hundredth time. “My majordomo won’t rat you out. He got along with Regis, and he knew he wasn’t human.” His voice wavered only a little when he said his mate’s name._

_He still wasn’t ready to think of Regis as his former mate. He’d expected the bond to wither away, but it kept hurting and tugging at him, reminding of what he’d let go._

_Iorveth made a face, but Usamea leaned over to whisper something in his ear. Geralt focused on birdsong from a nearby tree, catching only a few stray words in Elder Speech._

_Iorveth then spurred his horse forward._

_“Let’s go see this vineyard of yours.” He wore a grim, determined expression._

_Geralt turned to Usamea, who smiled._

_“I’m gonna continue onwards. It was a pleasure to ride with you, Geralt,” she said. They shook hands, and then the elf kicked her horse into gallop. She disappeared behind a curve in the road, and was gone._

_Geralt had told Iorveth he wasn’t by any means required to stay. If he decided that living in one place was too boring or risky, Geralt would help him disappear. Iorveth had rolled his eyes, but it had not hidden his nerves as they rode through the gates._

_Barnabas-Basil didn’t bat an eye at the scarred elf. He pointed out an empty room in one of the houses at the very edge of the vineyard, which had its own front door with a lock. In the following weeks, he surreptitiously hired four more elves to work in the grounds. They were city elves, but of the sort that no one else would hire, on account of two of them missing limbs, one being almost deaf but excellent with horses, and one a former prostitute who’d had a spectacular falling out with her madame._

_Geralt hadn’t asked, but he saw what B-B was doing; in the bunch of Aen Seidhe he was suddenly employing, Iorveth was the least likely to stick out. Geralt briefly considered having a discussion about hiring ethics with his majordomo, but then he concluded that the elves seemed happy to have a place to stay and work to occupy themselves with. They gradually drew Iorveth out from his shell, even when the former commando leader refused to actually work on the vines and set up a business as a hunter and what Geralt suspected was a business of selling contraband elven goods._

 

Summer rolled over the duchy, and one evening in June Geralt was trying to go through his correspondence. He had propped the window of his study open, but the sounds of the workers distracted him. There was a bird singing right under the window as well.

He had been staring at a blank page for half an hour, attempting to write back to Ciri who had settled into Nilfgaard proper for the summer. She had been desperately curious to hear how the Skellige trip had went.

Geralt still didn’t know how he could even begin to untangle the journey. He knew that there had been truth in his words when he’d told Ivy he and Regis could have broken even if they had never set foot in Skellige; however, he was running on a few hours of sleep a night, because the longer they were apart, the worse he was feeling.

It wasn’t like when he’d run away from Holmstein, either. That had been like a stab wound, acute and making him gasp for air. This hurt felt somehow older, and it didn’t wax or wane. It occupied every spare moment, pushing into his head until he had to ride out to dispatch any monster he could find, or curl up in his bed and try to ride out the memories and nightmares.

Corvo Bianco was his home, and at the same time it wasn’t. _Regis_ had been his home, and without him Geralt felt cast adrift, performing the motions he was expected, but ultimately not perfectly present.

Ciri had received the news of Geralt being unwelcome to Skellige for ten years. She’d threatened to open a portal and come see him personally, should he forgo answering her latest letter. Eskel had written too, rambling on in his illegible handwriting and managing to ask whether Geralt would visit Kaer Morhen with him without actually mentioning the keep by name even once. Lambert had sent him a brief note from wherever he’d travelled with Keira Metz, telling him to break a leg while pruning vines. Reading it had drawn the first bout of genuine laughter from Geralt.

There was also the actual correspondence of the vineyard to go through, but touching that stack held even less appeal than explaining to Ciri how Geralt had left Regis at Skellige. He pushed back in his chair and watched the evening sunlight ripple on the uneven glass panes of the window.

He was still waiting for the part when he’d begin to feel better. Everyone who had lost their loves had sworn by time healing even the most grievous of wounds. Geralt didn’t think he was very impatient, but not being able to sleep made him cranky and depressed.

When the sun finally started to set, he abandoned the pretense of even thinking about getting to the letter writing business tonight. His chest was hurting, because thinking about Regis was like ripping open a festering wound. There was no end to the things he remembered, but none of the memories brought him any joy; he missed Regis, and that was that.

Geralt walked outside and waved at the deaf elf as he passed the stables. He was trying to learn the hand-speak she used to communicate with her brother who sometimes visited the vineyard, but B-B hadn’t managed to dig out any books on it yet.

Regis would have known where to look, Geralt thought as he ambled towards the grove. The vampire would have either already known the basics and could have taught him, or would have known right away how to go about learning it.

He had to suppress a shiver and stop for a moment, because his brain insisted on doing this; one moment Geralt thought he was doing fine, and the next he remembered some small, inconsequential thing about Regis, and it was like he was still standing onboard Arlene and watching Regis grow smaller and smaller as the harbor vanished from view.

Geralt arrived to the shrine just as the last rays of the sun slipped away. The grove was in full bloom, and he heard small animals and insects scuttle amidst the greenery. The shrine was neat, and Geralt wiped away few dried leaves from the shelves before tucking a small candle into the upper one. A flick of _igni_ brought a flame to life, and he sat down on the toppled boulder to watch the stream that ran just next to it.

He lost the track of time, but at some point darkness fell and a blackbird started to warble in the oak tree right over him. Geralt allowed his mind to slip into the half-meditative state and listened, breathing in fresh spring air.

“They only sing when they’re alone.”

The shy voice made Geralt turn his head. He hadn’t heard the godling approach, but he made room on the boulder as she shuffled closer. Marie was holding a handful of smooth rocks, and she had replaced her flower crown with a wreath of ferns. She sat down at the edge of the boulder and gave him a shy smile. Geralt distantly wondered where she’d sent the winter.

“Have you ever seen a fern flower?” she asked.

Geralt chuckled. “Ferns don’t bloom, do they?”

Marie pouted. “They do, too. Humans are just too dumb to find them when they do.” Her face turned thoughtful. “Do you know if Regis has ever seen one?”

Geralt felt sorrow well up inside him. He mutely shook his head and looked away, because his throat was feeling hot and tight. It went like this every time, and the thought of writing all of this down in a letter was just too much.

Marie’s cold hand touched his arm gently. Geralt didn’t turn his head, but the godling didn’t seem to mind. She petted his arm in silence, and Geralt thought that her skin felt like smooth bark of a young willow. There was the scent of upturned earth about her.

“Did Regis not come home?” Marie finally asked. Her hand withdrew, and Geralt felt the tears spill over once again.

“No,” he rasped. “He went home.”

How many times would he have to say it to believe that Regis wasn’t coming back?

B-B had asked, voice small and careful, when a week had passed and Geralt hadn’t slept for more than an hour each night. He’d met his majordomo’s eyes, and there hadn’t been anything he could have said.

Marlene didn’t have to ask. Something from her time as a wight clung to her, and she could tell when people around her were hurting. Her eyes had grown melancholy, and Geralt had spent the afternoon sitting in the kitchen and watching her bake, hiding away from the world. The silence between them had been soft and familiar.

Age was catching up on Marlene, and her joints had been growing stiff during the winter. She still insisted on bustling around the house, nestling close to the stove in the kitchen when the weather turned foul. Geralt knew, deep in his bones, that he would give her a home until the end of her days.

The blackbird sung on, a flute-like trill interrupted with lower notes that dropped into the stream. Geralt tried to focus on it, but his breath insisted on getting caught in his throat.

“There is a poem,” Marie said after a long silence. “About the bird.” She was quiet again, but Geralt didn’t speak. He was used to cryptic statements made by godlings, and compared to Johnny, Marie was pretty coherent.

“It says there is a suggestion of dark places about it,” Marie finally continued. At the corner of his eye, Geralt saw her shoot a look to the bird. It was sitting on branch right over their heads. Its song stopped for a moment, and Geralt saw it turn its head this way and that, as if listening intently. A few shriller notes came out of its bright orange beak, but then it went on with its complicated song.

“Dark places?” Geralt asked. Marie shrugged.

“I don’t know about those. It’s dark under the ground, but I’m not sure that’s what they mean.”

Geralt knew of dark places. He felt like he had been in one ever since he’d come back.

Marie started to play with the stones. She had a thoughtful air about her.

“They put humans underground when they die. I think it’s weird. When we die, we go back to the same mother.” She opened her mouth to go on, but then she froze. Her cornflower blue eyes grew enormous, and Geralt carefully rose to his feet.

“Marie? What is it?” he asked. He was not wearing any armor, and his swords were back at the villa.

“Someone is coming,” Marie whispered, so quiet Geralt almost missed it. Then she was gone in a flurry of leaves and grass, and Geralt whirled around in alarm.

A twig snapped, and when he turned, he felt like he was dipped into ice.

Regis was standing under the big tree.

The blackbird gave another warning trill. It took wing, but didn’t go far. Geralt distantly heard it land on another tree over the stream, where it started its tireless concert anew.

Regis didn’t come any closer, but Geralt could smell him; he didn’t smell of herbs, just himself. He was dressed in the same simple clothes Geralt had last seen him wearing. His hair was short again.

There was something bleeding inside his chest, and he didn’t know how to stop it from ripping even more open as they stood there, frozen and both looking at each other.

Geralt moved without thinking, and the relief he felt when Regis met him halfway threatened to make his knees buckle. His hands hovered in the air, and then reached through the small distance separating them, caressing Regis’ cheek feather-light. His fingertips tingled, and only when he carefully cupped Regis’ jaw did he believe he wasn’t hallucinating.

“You hold my heart,” Regis whispered. He was starting to shake, hands gripping his bag so hard the leather strap was tearing. “And I don’t want to live without you.”

Slowly, very slowly, Geralt leaned closer. He didn’t dare to believe anything just then, but when his lips brushed Regis’, the vampire drew in a breath that ended in a sob.

“I don’t want to live without you, I want to come home,” Regis gasped into his mouth. Geralt closed the distance, and something trashed wildly inside his chest when Regis threw his arms around his neck and pressed close, kissing him hard. He tasted familiar, and after all these months Geralt still remembered exactly how he liked to be held.

They stole frantic breaths where they could, but the most important thing was to get as close as possible, to feel Regis’ skin under his fingers once again, and allow everything to spill out in a chaotic, unstoppable torrent. They went down in a heap, and as Regis cradled his head and whispered something unintelligible into his mouth, Geralt felt something begin to knit back together inside him.

He didn’t register it at first, but suddenly the bond flared, hot and insistent; just like that, Regis was back inside his head, and both of them laughed, unhinged and so, so relieved at the feeling. Geralt could feel how badly Regis had been hurting, and he wanted to reach inside his mate and scoop that hurt away. He felt Regis press closer when the emotion bled over.

“With time,” he sniffed. He blinked his eyes open. Geralt smiled. He had missed Regis resting against his chest and looking down at him with those black eyes of his.

There wasn’t a thing about Regis he hadn’t missed.

“Welcome home,” he whispered. He wasn’t in any hurry to get up, and Regis sighed as he nuzzled Geralt’s cheek. His hair was only curling at the ends, and when Geralt ran his hands through it, his smile grew.

“Oh, how I missed you, my love” Regis said. His voice was still sounding like he was seconds away from crying. He kept touching Geralt like he couldn’t believe he was finally back, like he needed to run his fingertips over his collarbones and neck to be certain of it.

“What made you come back?” Geralt asked. He didn’t need the full explanation now, that could wait. He just needed to know what he was feeling through the bond was true; that Regis had really come home.

“I made a choice, and then I realized it was the wrong one.” Regis grimaced. “Zericel could only have been a home to me if I hadn’t found one already.”

Geralt drew him down into yet another kiss, and his heart was beating light inside his chest.

He never noticed the blackbird had stopped singing at some point.

  
  


**_Epilogue_ **

 

_Dear Regis,_

_All is well. The children miss you, and so do I, but hearing you’ve settled back at home made my heart feel lighter than it had been all spring. Forgive me for saying this again, but I never thought you joining us was the right thing to do; I’m so glad you realized this, too._

_The council finally managed to end the long-winded argument about whether you should be wholly banned from the island. Is it just your influence, or are all of our people so in love with their own voices? I must have spent too long living away from my own kind._

_In any case, they came to the conclusion that you will be allowed to visit, under strict conditions. Your right to a citizenship has been revoked for good, but somehow I don’t think these news will crush you. Gina is dying to come see you, so once we figure out how the travel arrangements could be handled, I’ll let you know. It would be wonderful to see you again. Both of you, but don’t tell the grumpy witcher I said so._

_Sinja is doing a little better. Her consciousness seems to linger, but it has not returned. I have been surprised to discover that I’m not very angry at her anymore. I don’t think I will be able to forgive her for what she did, but if she someday does wake up, I won’t attack her on sight. Most likely._

_The seneschal is doing much better, thank you for asking. Not that I want to blow my own horn too much, but I’ll have you know his mind is starting to heal on its own. I spent all summer trying to make him give up the notion that he has to heal to be worthy of respect, but I wasn’t getting very far with that._

_Then, in late June, the queen basically kicked him all over the yard and screamed at him quite a bit, about him being loved no matter how broken he might be, could he please pull his head out of his arse, and so on. It was quite colorful, and a lot of it translated over to his dreams; I have never seen an adult male so flustered. After that, I’ve been making much more progress._

_In that same vein, I do not appreciate your insinuations about my correspondence with one Dettlaff van der Eretein. There is nothing more I will say about the topic._

_I send you good wishes, and hope we will see each other later this autumn._

_Your friend,_

_Ivy Ainsworth_

 

Regis finished reading the letter and deposited it back on the nightstand before lying back down. Geralt tugged him closer, and he settled against his naked lover with a happy sigh.

“Sounds like she’s doing well,” Geralt said.

“Mm. I have to admit I’m surprised the council would still welcome me to Zericel. I left without leaving any kind of a note, and it fell on poor Ivy to explain what I had decided.” Regis stretched more comfortably into the embrace.

“At least we agree on your kind loving monologuing far more than is healthy,” Geralt pointed out, and then laughed when Regis gave him a weak glare. It was hard to muster up the energy to be offended when he could still feel a ghost of a touch where his mate had held onto him only some time ago, as Regis had rocked in and out of him for what felt like hours.

“Tell me if they do want to visit. We need to make sure your brooding blood-brother is here when they arrive,” Geralt went on. There was a mischievous grin on his face. “I asked Dettlaff about Ivy the last time he visited, and he dropped the goblet he was holding. Can you imagine?”

“Yes, because I was there,” Regis reminded him, but a fond smile was tugging at his lips.

Dettlaff had gone back to Nazair for now, but he had made a point of visiting Corvo Bianco ever so often. Regis had been able to see his brother was getting better, but he had been surprised by the shyness he’d started to exhibit during the summer whenever Ivy had been brought up.

As far as Regis knew, nothing had happened as of yet, but he was feeling cautiously optimistic.

Outside their bedroom, Regis could hear the resident blackbird give a warning trill before taking wing. He had no idea what had made the birds start to frequent the vineyard, but during summer he had spotted several nesting pairs all over the valley. Their warbling song was becoming a steady background noise of the place he called home.

Geralt rolled over and threw his leg over Regis’. “Have you been able to sleep?” His voice was low and intimate.

Regis nodded. “It’s slowly getting better. I rarely wake up more than once a night nowadays.”

It had been his turn to experience backlash, it seemed. Geralt’s ability to sleep had returned along with the bond growing back, but Regis had been slower to recover.

He knew he’d get there, eventually. It was easier to trust in the healing process when he no longer felt like his soul was being forcibly pulled out from his body.

“That’s good,” Geralt said with a yawn. “Have to say, I’m kinda looking forward to wintering this year.”

“Oh?” Regis asked. He reached for the duvet and pulled it over them. The nights were slowly getting cooler again, and Regis enjoyed how hot his mate was running.

“We don’t have to go anywhere. The harvest was good this year. B-B said we made enough to pay everyone, and after that I kind of stopped listening.” Geralt was grinning bashfully, and Regis laughed as he pressed a kiss to his lips.

“You’re right. Staying at home sounds good,” he agreed, speaking the words against Geralt’s lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A Blackbird Singing**   
>  _By R. S. Thomas_
> 
> It seems wrong that out of this bird,  
> Black, bold, a suggestion of dark  
> Places about it, there yet should come  
> Such rich music, as though the notes'  
> Ore were changed to a rare metal  
> At one touch of that bright bill.
> 
> You have heard it often, alone at your desk  
> In a green April, your mind drawn  
> Away from its work by sweet disturbance  
> Of the mild evening outside your room.
> 
>    
> A slow singer, but loading each phrase  
> With history's overtones, love, joy  
> And grief learned by his dark tribe  
> In other orchards and passed on  
> Instinctively as they are now,  
> But fresh always with new tears.
> 
> ***
> 
> To everyone who read this far, I'd like to say thank you, from the bottom of my heart. <3


End file.
